


someone to you

by redluxite (wordstruck)



Series: VLD One-Shots [22]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Angst, Background Character Death, Barebacking, Blowjobs, Bottom Keith (Voltron), Ex-Boxer Shiro, Getting Back Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Pining Shiro (Voltron), Real Steel AU, Top Shiro (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-17 00:19:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16505507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordstruck/pseuds/redluxite
Summary: They stand in silence. Keith checks over the other cubbies. Shiro's just started thinking he should maybe just go when Keith speaks again.“Get in the ring.”“What?”“You haven’t got a place to stay, right?” Keith’s expression when he looks at Shiro is flint and steel. “Get in the ring, and I’ll let you stay here.”Shiro doesn’t know how to respond to that, too caught off-guard. He hesitates. “Keith—”“Get in the ring, Shiro.”He gets in the ring.(A Sheith Real Steel AU)





	someone to you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sochan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sochan/gifts).



> One more fic for my darling [Sochan](https://twitter.com/capt_shiro), who wanted a Sheith Real Steel AU. I actually hadn't seen the movie before, so we ended up rabb.it-ing it together on Netflix one night after she told me how she generally wanted the plot to go – Shiro as an ex-boxer, Keith being part of his past, Pidge ending up in Shiro's care, the bot fights, etc. Then I took it from there.
> 
> (Of course, by "took it from there" I mean this was originally meant to be a 9k fic and it somehow ended up as. this. I make no apologies though ok I had a lot of words.)
> 
> The fic doesn't follow the movie storyline precisely, but it keeps the general premise and a few key events. Ngl I had a lot of fun writing this. Title and lyrics at the start taken from Someone to You by Banners.

* * *

 

 _I never had nobody and no road home  
_ _I wanna be somebody to someone_

 

Garrison City doesn’t seem to change, no matter how many times Shiro leaves and comes back.

The first time he’d left for a fight outside the city – for a fight that would put him in contention for a title – he’d been absurdly nervous coming back. He didn’t know why he’d expected the city to be different from when he’d left nine days before; it wasn’t like anything had happened. He was the one who’d changed: he’d left a hometown hero and come back a champion.

After, it became a comfort, how the city seemed so unchanging while everything around Shiro got uprooted.

Now he drives the pickup through the back streets, avoiding the traffic, trailer clunking along behind. It’s an exercise in nostalgia: left to the gym where he’d had his first promotional fight. Two blocks along to the studio where he’d been featured after winning his first title. Right to where the old sports equipment store had been, the brand that had provided his every pair of gloves.

(And behind him, the hospital where everything had gone to pieces. The further away he drives, the more it feels like a bit of a twisted metaphor.)

He doesn’t know why he’s agreed to come back – no, that’s a lie. He does know; he just doesn’t like admitting it. But it’s the first time in half a year that he’s back in the city, after months spent on the road, picking up low-level bot matches for a paycheck to live on. It’s scrounging, he knows, but he hadn’t had much else to go on.

Shiro’s expression pinches, his hands flexing on the steering wheel. No, that’s also a lie. It’s just easier not to be honest with himself when he’s alone on the road.

Not for the first time, he contemplates driving right back out of the city, going to the next town and picking up a different bot fight.

With a sigh, he signals for the right turn.

(Not for the first time, he reminds himself: he can’t run forever.)

 

When he gets to the gym, it’s quiet.

There’s no one parked outside, no sounds of people training or watching a fight inside. The door to the garage is shut. Shiro gets out of the pickup in trepidation.

He checks the locks on the trailer, then, warily, heads to the gym. Shiro eases the front doors open, peering inside.

Garrison City hasn’t changed, and neither has the Kogane Gym. The red ropes still form a barrier around the ring, familiar even after all this time. The far side of the room holds the cubbies for gloves and other equipment, with the benches in front. The whiteboard is on the wall to the right of the ring; for a time, Shiro’s name had been scrawled prominently at the top, with a running tally of his wins and losses.

The board’s empty now, wiped clean. The cubbies are empty too. The whole place is empty, and Shiro walks inside with apprehension in every step.

(He can still remember the last time he’d been here, six months ago. Standing near the drinks bar in the middle of the night, bag slung over his shoulder. The words thrown at him that night still haunt the periphery of his memory.)

There’s a rustling noise off to the side, and Shiro jolts, looking up just in time to see—

“Keith,” he says, before he can stop himself, before he can turn around and walk right back out the door. He flinches, gritting his teeth.

There’s a small consolation in seeing that Keith’s just as wrong-footed as he is. “Shiro,” he says, startled, and the way his voice wraps around the name – but the surprise quickly turns to something more shuttered, more guarded, and that hurts even more. Shiro can still remember when Keith still smiled at seeing him. When Keith said his name like something sweet.

(When they’d been happy.)

He watches Keith carry an armful of gloves, probably freshly cleaned, over to the shelves. Part of him thinks to offer to help, but the larger part of him hesitates. He’s not even sure he’s allowed to be here.

He settles for a “hey, Keith.” Offers a tentative smile.

Keith just starts stuffing gloves into cubby holes.

Shiro waits a few moments, then sighs, glancing around again. Now that he’s looking, he finds the gym _has_ changed, if in small ways. The drinks bar has been expanded; there’s a bigger television hooked up at the end, and a small board underneath with what looks like a notice of an upcoming ZC bot fight. The door to the garage has changed from a metal screen door to a more solid one. The lights are different.

Keith – Keith’s different too.

Shiro watches him stock the cubbies, well-worn movements. He’s been doing this as long as Shiro can remember, as long as he’d been coming to this place. Looking at him is another exercise in nostalgia, just more painful, but it prompts Shiro to try again.

“I’m sorry I missed the anniversary.” He’d thought about coming back, but looking at the state he’d been in – hair too long and unkempt, three-day scruff on his jaw, hungover from drinking off his latest loss in a bot fight –  there’d simply been no way he could have faced standing in front of Heath’s grave. Not like that.

For several moments Keith just keeps shoving gloves into cubbies, back turned to Shiro. There’s a sharp set to his shoulders, a dip to his spine. Finally, he turns and fixes Shiro with a look that cuts right to bone.

“Why are you here, Shiro,” Keith asks, and he sounds – tired.

(Midnight in the middle of this same room, and the same weight is in Keith’s voice as he steps away, says _if you’re going to keep leaving, Shiro, why don’t you just stay gone._ )

Shiro’s mouth twists. “I just… thought I’d drop by.”

Keith scoffs at that, rolling his eyes. “You. Dropping by.”

“Am I not allowed to visit now?” Shiro counters, a little harsher than he means to be, hackles rising in the face of Keith’s coldness.

“Is that what you do? _Visit?_ ” Keith’s tone turns scathing, his expression condescending. “Well you haven’t _visited_ in six months, actually, and who even remembers how long you were gone before that—”

“It’s not as if I could stay _here_ ,” Shiro bites out, because Keith knows, Keith had been there through everything, it’s not fair to tear all this open again now when Shiro’s fresh off an hours-long road trip and feeling too raw for his liking. Maybe he’s defensive, but Keith doesn’t get to do this. “Besides, isn’t that what you wanted? Me gone?”

“You were the one who kept leaving.” The way Keith says it, it isn’t even an accusation anymore. Just a resignation. “I don’t know why you – you can’t just keep coming back here and expecting nothing changed.”

“I don’t.” _Lie;_ he does expect that, of course he does. It hurts too much otherwise, to acknowledge that everything’s moving forward while he’s stuck standing where he is, too afraid.

The look on Keith’s face tells Shiro he knows Shiro’s lying. “Yeah, well, things did.” He turns away to put in the last of the gloves. He doesn’t have to say _and I did,_ but Shiro hears it anyway.

They stand in silence. Keith checks over the other cubbies. Shiro's just started thinking he should maybe just go when Keith speaks again.

“Get in the ring.”

“What?”

“You haven’t got a place to stay, right?” Keith’s expression when he looks at Shiro is flint and steel. “Get in the ring, and I’ll let you stay here.”

Shiro doesn’t know how to respond to that, too caught off-guard. He hesitates. “Keith—”

“Get in the ring, Shiro.”

 

He gets in the ring.

 

Keith’s been right about many things in their many arguments, but he’s not entirely right that he hasn’t changed. He still fights the same, like a kid in a back alley, scrappy and a little graceless. He’s stronger now, though, more in control. And Shiro’s rusty, hasn’t thrown his own weight around in ages. His hair’s too long and his reactions are slow and his right arm moves awkwardly as he throws the prosthetic forward for a punch—

Keith knocks him down to the mat and gets a knee to his chest before he can recover his breath. His expression’s gone shuttered again. Shiro lets his hands drop down by his head.

“Yield,” he says, quietly, and it’s not the only way he surrenders.

Keith looks down at him a few moments more before flicking his gaze away and standing. Shiro pushes himself up, lips parted, uncertain about what he wants to say. It feels a little late for another apology.

“You know where the guest room is,” Keith tells him, and Shiro’s shoulders slump on an exhale.

It’s not forgiveness, but it’s – something.

 

They’re having a quiet, awkward breakfast together when the news comes in.

He gets a phone call from Iverson, of all people. Shiro doesn’t even remember giving the man his number; they only know each other because Iverson works with Sam and the Holts are like Shiro’s second family. Shiro frowns at his screen, accepting the call and raising the phone to his ear uncertainly.

“Hello?”

“Takashi Shirogane?” The clumsy pronunciation of his full name makes him wince, but he recognizes the voice.

“Yes.” Shiro glances over at Keith, but the other man appears absorbed in his own phone, absently eating his cereal. He turns his attention back to the call. “Can I help you?”

“Apologies, Mr. Shirogane,” Iverson says, and he does sound rather apologetic. “I’m calling about the Holts. I’m afraid I have bad news.”

 

Afterwards, Shiro sits at the breakfast table and stares at his phone. Keith hovers across from him, looking uncharacteristically apprehensive. It’s nearing ten in the morning, which means Keith needs to open the gym and the garage soon. Neither of them move.

Keith breaks the silence first. “So this kid…”

“Is coming to stay with me.” It feels weird even saying it. “Iverson said it’s just until they find a more… permanent arrangement.”

“Okay.” Keith’s hands fidget, picking at his fingerless gloves. He stop-starts his next sentence a few times before he asks, “is she—?”

It takes Shiro a few moments to get what he’s asking, and when he does it almost makes him laugh. “No, no.” He hardly knows Katie as it is. “Her parents, Sam and Colleen, they – took care of me.”

It’s an inadequate way to describe how Sam had stood up to Shiro’s father and told the man that his son could have a future other than just following up a legacy. He’d been the one to send Shiro to the Kogane Gym, who’d bought Shiro his first pair of gloves. And now he’s… gone. Him and Colleen and Matt.

 _Ferry accident,_ Iverson had said. Katie had been lucky enough not to be with them, if losing her entire family in a day counts as lucky. Sam had had Shiro listed as an emergency contact in lieu of any immediate family.

It feels… surreal.

Shiro realizes he’s woolgathering and clears his throat, running a hand through his hair. He hates that he has to ask Keith for a favor – a big one, at that – but – “anyway, I was, ah. Hoping if she could maybe stay here for a bit. I have a couple of bot fights lined up, and I can’t exactly take her with me.”

He looks up to find Keith frowning at him, mouth pinched in dissatisfaction. “ _You’re_ supposed to take care of her.”

Shiro frowns right back. “I can’t take her with me on the road.”

“So you’re – what, going to pass her off to the next best person who’ll look after her?” And when Keith puts it like that – it does sound like a shitty thing to do. Shiro looks away, feels his cheeks heat up in chagrin. Keith exhales slow and deliberate, crossing his arms.

“She’s a _person,_ Shiro. A kid. Who’s just lost a hell of a lot.” Keith’s voice goes brittle and shame is a sharp sting in Shiro’s chest. Keith drops his arms to prop a hand on his hip as he looks away.

“Anyway, just – talk to her, okay?” he adds. There’s a weight in his tone, baggage that Shiro doesn’t need to unpack to know about. He sighs.

“Okay.”

 

Katie is… much as Shiro remembers, which, honestly, isn’t much at all.

He knows Matt better, despite their differences; they’d gotten along well, spending plenty of time together whenever Shiro was back for a visit. He knows Katie and Matt are – _were_ close as siblings, though it hadn’t translated to her getting along with Shiro as well. Still, he can recall a precocious young girl, just as brilliant and sunny as her brother, eager to show Matt the latest thing she’d tinkered with or discovered.

He wonders if she still recognizes him, with his too-long hair and scruffy jaw, his time-worn body; the prosthetic arm and the scar across his nose. Sometimes he looks in the mirror and doesn’t recognize himself.

Katie sits at the drinks bar, feet dangling a little ways off the ground. She’s got earphones dangling around her neck and is tapping away at her phone. Her hair is shorter, cut in a way that makes her resemblance to Matt that much more pronounced. In her green-and-white shirt and glasses, if Shiro looks at her slantwise, it’s almost like his friend is sitting there, waiting for Shiro to come up beside him so he can talk about the latest thing that’s happened in his galaxy flight program.

It hurts to look.

Shiro doesn’t quite know what to do now, honestly. He’s brought her stuff up to Keith’s guest room, helped Keith lay out a mattress so he can sleep on the floor and Katie can take the bed. He’s checked in with Iverson to let him know Katie’s arrived safely. Now he’s hovering awkwardly at the end of the bar, unsure of what he should say.

Keith takes one look at Shiro and rolls his eyes.

“Hey, Katie,” he says, walking over to the business side of the bar. He props his arms on the countertop, smiling gently. “Want something to drink?”

There’s a few moments of silence, then Katie nods.

“Okay.” Keith nods at the drinks selection. “What do you want? Coke? Iced tea?”

She looks up at him then, mouth twisted in a little pout. Her fingers grip her phone tight. Keith keeps his expression warm and open.

She looks down. “Iced tea, thank you.”

It’s the first time they’ve heard her speak. Shiro’s admittedly a little relieved.

“Okay,” Keith says again. He gets her the drink, sets it on the counter in front of her. “I’m Keith, I’m a – friend, of Shiro’s. He’s staying here for a while, so you’ll be staying with us too.” His gaze flicks over to Shiro, then back. “We’ll take care of you, okay?”

There’s a pause, and belatedly Shiro realizes he probably should have said something three sentences ago. He clears his throat awkwardly and shuffles over.

“Yeah,” he rasps, and his smile feels brittle. “I’m – we’re here. You’ll be okay.”

They lapse back into silence as Katie fiddles with her phone and Keith straightens up some things at the bar. Shiro’s stuck feeling strangely inadequate and _really_ not up to this, but Keith’s right – Katie’s a person, and Shiro understands loss all too well.

He takes the seat beside her. “I mean it,” he says, as sincerely as he can manage. He reaches for her, switching to the left hand after some hesitation and touching fingers to her arm. “I’m gonna look out for you, Katie.”

It’s a few moments more before Katie lifts her head and looks him in the eyes. Her expression is fractured, searching. Shiro doesn’t look away.

Eventually, she turns her head, but the set of her shoulders isn’t as crumpled as before. Her hands fumble with her phone.

“Pidge,” she says, quietly. “I – Matt. He called me Pidge.”

Something inside Shiro’s chest tightens even as he smiles. “Okay.”

 

Despite his promise, looking after Pidge doesn’t come easily for Shiro.

The first problem comes up along with his first bot fight, because he can’t just take a skinny sixteen-year-old to a ring and ask her to sit quietly in a corner while he makes his fighter bot beat up someone else’s. Thankfully the fight’s here in Garrison City, the whole reason he’d come back in the first place.

“Just one night,” he tells Keith; pleads, almost, expression contrite. “Just for the fight, Keith, come on.”

“You have _responsibilities,_ Shiro,” Keith hisses, scathing. “You can’t keep _leaving people here_ while you go off to fight and avoid everything else.”

That – stings, makes the resentment well up hot inside him even as the shame pools in his lungs. He doesn’t know what to reply to that, but Keith spares him the effort by leaving.

(Shiro still hates it, even now, the sight of Keith walking away.)

Pidge seems to sense that something’s off, because the next time they have breakfast together, she clears her throat and taps a finger on her glass of juice.

“Are you two fighting?” she asks, abrupt.

Shiro chokes on his coffee. Keith finishes chewing his toast.

“Shiro has a bot fight coming up,” he explains, setting his food down. “You’ve seen those right? On TV?”

“Yeah!” It’s the most emotion Shiro’s seen from Pidge since she’s come here – her face lights up, mouth curling in a small smile. “Matt took me to see Sincline fight live, once. He said he was going to help me build a bot the next—” She cuts off, withdrawing suddenly, face falling. Keith reaches out to touch her wrist.

“The fight’s here in Garrison City,” he says softly, wisely deciding not to press. “Shiro’s not sure he should be bringing you with him, but I don’t want you to just be left here either.” His gaze flicks over to Shiro as if daring him to object; Shiro just sighs and nods. Keith turns back to Pidge. “What would you rather do?”

Pidge keeps looking at her hands in her lap. Keith doesn’t move his hand away. Shiro stares at his coffee and tries not to feel too guilty that Keith had been the one to talk it out.

(It reminds him again: Keith deserves better than him.)

It’s a while before Pidge speaks, her voice small but firm. “I want to watch.” She turns to Shiro, looking him in the eye. He tries not to balk. “Can I?”

Shiro can feel Keith watching him from across the table. He looks back at Pidge. Sighs.

“Fine.”

 

Keith doesn’t want to be here.

Pidge is in the back of the pickup, sprawled across the seat and tapping away at her phone. Keith is in the shotgun seat, leaning against the window, watching the nighttime traffic go by. Garrison City is bright and thriving around them, neon lights flashing across Keith’s face, blurring his expression. But Shiro knows – Keith doesn’t like watching him in bot fights, not before and even less now.

 _I’m not about to just let you take Pidge there on your own,_ he’d said when he’d shown up outside the gym, still wearing that same red retro jacket that Shiro remembers. Still in the fingerless gloves, too, and Shiro can hear a much younger Keith saying, when Shiro had asked, _you don’t always have time to wrap up your knuckles for a fight._

Shiro remembers a lot of things about Keith, really. It just makes it hurt more to see all the ways he’s different now, and still the same.

Arusia is as crowded and noisy as it’s ever been. Garrison City’s underground bot fight ring is packed to the rafters, dozens of people clamoring as one bot smashes another’s arm off. Shiro leads Keith and Pidge off to the side, hauling his bot on a cart and looking for his old acquaintance.

“Takashi Shirogane!” calls a familiar voice, and Shiro turns around to see Allura striding up to him with a smirk on her face. Shiro’s answering smile is more strained.

“Hey Allura,” he says, politely accepting her kiss to his cheek. She steps back to assess first him, then his bot.

“Sure you’re up to this, Shiro?” she asks, turning back to him. “I could put you on an undercard, one of the starter bots. Easier fight, easier win.”

It grates at Shiro, as much as he knows where she’s coming from. He doesn’t exactly have the best record going into this fight. But he needs the win and the money, and his pride just won’t let him accept a lower-tier fight.

“I’m sure,” he says, through gritted teeth. Alura looks at him a few moments longer before acquiescing with a nod.

“Then you’re up next,” she tells him, gesturing to the gap in the barriers that surround the ring, bouncers keeping the crowd at bay. “Entrance is over there.”

“Thanks, Allura.” Shiro offers her a smile. She gives him a skeptical look in return before disappearing to the back rooms from which she watches the fights.

Shiro sighs, rubbing a hand over his neck. He’s turning back to give his bot a once-over when a voice pipes up.

“You should have taken her offer,” Pidge says from where she’s peering at his bot, expression dubious. Shiro bristles. Black Lion doesn’t look like much, but it’s been his fighter bot for a good while now. Pidge taps the bot’s arm and turns to Shiro with a frown. “You’re fighting Robeast, right? It’s not gonna last the second round.”

“And what would _you_ know,” Shiro snaps, shooing her away from the cart. He turns to Keith with a scowl. “Just – stay out of the way until it’s over, will you?”

Keith’s expression is unimpressed as he takes Pidge by the arm. “Whatever you say,” he replies coolly, and then they disappear into the crowd. Shiro takes a deep breath to calm himself; he needs to be focused if he wants to win here. Black Lion isn’t in the best condition at the moment, but it can put up a fight. He can do this.

He doesn’t search the crowd as he gets his bot into the ring.

 

It takes one and a half rounds, and a grand total of four and a quarter minutes.

Shiro stares at where his bot lies crumpled on the ground, right arm mangled and head smashed in. Robeast paces back and forth around it, hands raised triumphantly, its owner smug across the ring.

He almost leaves Black Lion there. Almost.

Shiro piles his broken bot into the cart and leaves.

 

Pidge and Keith are waiting for him by the pickup when he finally emerges, bot cart trundling along behind him. Mercifully, they say nothing; Pidge just gets into her seat while Keith helps him load what’s left of Black Lion into the trailer hitched to the back. Then they get into the pickup and drive off.

The neon lights blur over Keith’s face again. The radio’s turned down. Shiro stares at the road.

“I’m sorry,” Keith says softly. His fingers brush over Shiro’s wrist once.

The rest of the drive back is silent.

 

The next morning finds Pidge staring Shiro down in Keith’s garage, arms crossed as she stands by his mangled bot.

“It’ll be easier to just sell it,” Shiro argues, exasperated. He could probably haggle for a pretty good price, too, one that’ll make it easier for him to buy a new bot. Maybe a secondhand one, a fallen-from-grace former champion bot that he can work with, give him some name recognition. Quicker, too.

Pidge sets her jaw and glares back at him. “No,” she says, just as she’s been saying since she’d beat Shiro down here earlier. “It’s a perfectly good bot, Shiro, I can fix it. I _can._ ”

Shiro pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes shut, and exhales a sharp sigh. “I’m sure you can, but—”

“ _Please._ ” And it’s the way she looks – god, she really does remind Shiro of Matt. She’s just as stubborn as he was, too. “I can do this.”

Shiro looks at her, the determined set of her jaw, the distraught expression on her face. He remembers her over breakfast a few days ago, _Matt was going to help me build a bot._ He thinks about how right now, he’s all she’s got left. Him and Keith.

He sighs again, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“Okay.” A corner of his mouth quirks up despite himself. “Knock yourself out.”

 

(The smile on her face is worth it, anyway.)

 

An hour later and he’s helping Keith wash the breakfast dishes while Pidge scopes out Keith’s garage to check what parts and tools he’s got. Keith’s oddly subdued, even for him, as he scrubs the plates.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, a few moments later. “That was – good of you.”

Shiro pauses in the middle of drying a bowl, glancing up in surprise. He turns back to the dish in his hand, feeling like he’s been knocked off-balance.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he points out, a little stilted.

Keith looks at him sideways, and for the first time since Shiro’s arrived, there’s a genuine smile on his face. It’s small, the slightest upturn of his lips and crinkles at the corners of his eyes, but it’s there.

“I know,” and it’s the last thing he says for the rest of the morning. He leaves the last of the plates with Shiro as he goes to open the gym and bar.

Shiro watches him go, and oddly enough, he feels warm.

 

He checks in on Pidge a little later in the day and finds her sitting in the middle of the garage surrounded by bot parts and power tools. Her lunch is half-eaten on a plate by her knee. She’s got a pair of industrial safety goggles over her eyes as she squints at some inner part of the bot, brow furrowed. Shiro leans against the doorframe and watches her, nostalgia and guilt heavy in his ribs.

She looks up after a while, slightly startled to find him there. Calloused hands lift the goggles off her face.

“You okay?” she asks tentatively, setting the bot part down.

Shiro blinks at her for a few moments, then manages a half-smile. “Yeah,” he says, running a hand through his hair. It really is too long. “Just – you remind me a lot of Matt, is all.”

Pidge looks back down, hands fiddling with the metal piece in her grip. “I miss them,” she admits, and she sounds so small. Shiro purses his lips and exhales slowly.

“Yeah,” he confesses. “I miss them too.”

 

Twelve days, a bit of parts salvaging, and plenty of elbow grease later, Pidge shakes Shiro from sleep, excited. He jerks awake, body tense, blinking in the darkness of their room. The digital clock on the dresser reads 4:36am.

“Whassappening?” he slurs, looking around him, disoriented.

“Come _on,_ ” Pidge hisses, tugging him out of bed. He stumbles after her, vaguely hearing Keith’s mumbled _what’s going on?_ as Pidge leads him downstairs, far too awake and chipper for the frankly terrible hour.

Then she pulls him into the garage, and Shiro takes just a few moments before he’s staring, breath caught in his throat.

There’s a bot standing in the middle of the room. It’s powered down, but Shiro doesn’t need to see it on to know it’s – good. The design is more streamlined than Black Lion’s, although Shiro can still see the parts Pidge salvaged from his old bot to reuse in this new one. It gleams a sleek silver-white, with chrome and orange accents, exuding power.

Pidge stands to the side, fidgeting a little nervously. Shiro looks at her, then feels himself break into a grin.

“This is amazing,” he tells her, warm and sincere, and her whole face lights up.

“Really?”

“Really.” Shiro makes to open his arms, then stalls his movement. He lays a hand on her shoulder instead, squeezing briefly, and smiles. “I’m proud of you,” he says.

She looks down at the floor, embarrassed, shuffling her feet. “Thank you.”

When Shiro looks up, he finds Keith in the entrance of the garage, watching them with a soft, sleepy smile. The expression falters on Shiro’s face for a moment, but when Keith shakes his head, exasperated and fond, Shiro finds he can smile back.

 

Of course, now Pidge wants to take it out for a fight.

“I just need one final bit of programming,” she says over dinner, talking around her mouthful of burger. Keith stares at her, appalled. “Then I wanna test it out.”

“What?” Shiro stares at her, sure she’s not saying what he thinks she’s saying.  “No. _I’ll_ test it out, what are you talking about—”

“It’s _my_ bot,” Pidge points out, waving a French fry at him. “I made it, so I should control it.”

“I’m not letting a sixteen-year-old take part in a bot fight.” Shiro tries to be firm, glaring at her. She glares right back.

“Technically,” Keith interjects, voice carefully bland, “you don’t have to. She could go on her own. At least this way, she’s got you backing her up.”

Shiro turns to Keith in disbelief and betrayal. Pidge grins triumphantly. Keith just shrugs and goes back to eating.

“No.” Shiro’s not going to give. He won’t.

 

Shiro gives.

Two days later finds him standing in the gym after it’s closed, while Pidge tinkers a bit with her bot by the ring. Shiro can feel the smugness radiating off Keith where he finishes cleaning up for the day, over at the bar.

He can’t believe he’s doing this.

“What do you need?” he asks, shoulders slumping and hand rubbing his forehead. “What do I have to do with your programming anyway?”

“It’s—” Pidge pauses, biting her lip, expression contrite. Shiro eyes her warily. “Look, don’t get mad. I made Keith show me your stuff from before, you know – when you were a boxer.”

It’s like something freezes inside Shiro, ice crackling in his lungs. His prosthetic clenches into a fist by his side, phantom pain where the metal and plastic meet skin. The scar across his nose aches. Pidge grimaces and presses on. “And this bot – I changed up its system a little, but I couldn’t adapt the Black Lion’s old motion control unit to this one, it was too damaged. So I need to program all its moves from scratch, and I was wondering – I was hoping—”

She trails off, looking at him guiltily. “I was hoping you’d help me.”

Shiro’s jaw is clenched as he stares back at her. “How, exactly?”

“By shadow teaching it.” Pidge fiddles with the hem of her hoodie. “It has a shadow function enabled that allows it to mimic the moves of anyone wearing its coordinated braces. You’d do the moves, the bot would follow, and then I’d record them into its system to use in fights.”

(An inter-state drive home after a bout. A terrifying few moments where it feels like the world is pinwheeling around him. The grating screech of brakes, of tires on concrete.)

“I can’t.” Shiro can’t bring himself to glance at the crestfallen look on Pidge’s face. Then tentative fingers touch his arm, the left one, and Shiro turns, startled, to see Keith beside him.

“I won’t apologize for showing her,” he says, but his expression is gentle, soft in ways Shiro thought he’d never see again. “But I think – you could try, Shiro.”

 _That’s not fair,_ Shiro thinks, closing his eyes because that isn’t fair, Keith can’t look at him like that. He feels the hand withdraw from his arm and almost chases the touch, the warmth. He swallows, bites his lip.

Looks back at Pidge.

“All right.” His mouth pinches, hand coming up to card through his hair. He can’t believe he’s agreeing to this, but – “what should I do?”

Pidge grins. “Come here.”

 

He’s tried not to count, but Shiro still knows how long it had been to the day since he last stepped into a ring. Facing Keith, with all the mess between them, had been easier than standing here now, pre-programmed electronic braces around his wrists and ankles. Pidge tells him they’re coordinated back to her laptop, which is linked up to the bot.

“When you move, it moves,” she explains, demonstrating by pulling his wrist up and to the side. The bot’s arm responds, raising with a series of clicks and whirrs. “I’ll record all your sequences in real time, then save them to the bot as commands it can use later. We’ll be able to tell it what to do via vocal-response control.”

“Huh.” Shiro has to admit he’s pretty impressed. He moves his arm up and down experimentally, eyebrows going up as the bot follows his motions. “That’s pretty good.”

“I know.” Pidge grins, self-satisfied, but her cheeks are a little pink. Shiro cuffs her lightly on the head, flinching a little when the bot suddenly does the same.

“Careful,” she mock-scolds, elbowing him a bit. “All right, are you good to go?”

“As I’ll ever be.” Shiro rolls his shoulders and turns to the ring. Something tightens in his ribcage as he looks at the familiar red ropes, the tarps with the gym name emblazoned on them that run around the base. Still the same as when he’d first stepped inside, so much younger than he is now, so much less – damaged.

The fingers of his prosthetic curl tight. His chest rises and falls as he breathes into empty spaces. He looks at Keith, helping Pidge get the bot up past the ropes.

( _Get in the ring, Shiro._ )

 

He gets in the ring.

 

It’s a long night – a lot of long nights, and sometimes afternoons when business is slow. Shiro hasn’t had this hard of a workout in ages; his hair keeps falling out of its ponytail and his body is aching. He winces as he moves from the strain of working muscles that he’s left to go unconditioned. But he’d been surprised to see how much he still remembers, how much is still ingrained in his bones – all the moves, the combinations.

He stares at his hands now, curled into fists, as he stands at the counter of the guest bath. Pictures them with the red gloves, all wrapped up with tape underneath, all the bruises and calluses that littered his skin.

“Penny for your thoughts?” comes an amused voice, and Shiro startles out of his daze. Keith stands in the doorway to the bathroom, eyebrow raised.

“It’s nothing,” Shiro says, smiling faintly as he turns back to the mirror. His hands come up to card through his hair, tugging at the strands. He’s meant to cut it, but he’s not quite sure how and it’s difficult on his own, now that it’s this long. The streaks of white don’t help. He frowns, pulling it up in a messy bunch at the back of his head.

“Want me to do it?” Keith offers, and Shiro hadn’t even realized he’d still been there.

“No, it’s—” He cuts off with a sigh, letting his hair fall back down to his shoulders. Keith’s expression is sincere, and maybe just a little sad. A corner of Shiro’s mouth curls up ruefully. “If you don’t mind.”

“Come here,” Keith says, gesturing for Shiro to follow.

They end up in Keith’s bathroom with Shiro on a stool and Keith standing behind him, carefully running a comb through Shiro’s damp hair. Shiro doesn’t remember the last time he’d been in Keith’s room, let alone the last time he’d been this close to the other man without the hot bite of animosity and resentment between them. But Keith is quiet, careful, as he finishes combing and reaches for the scissors.

“Let me know if I hurt you,” he says, and then he lifts a section of hair to cut.

 _You could never,_ Shiro almost says, because it’s the other way around. He’s the one who’s kept hurting Keith. But he keeps that to himself; sits still and lets Keith work.

It’s – startlingly intimate. There’s no sound but for the soft sounds of the scissors and their combined breathing. Keith’s hands are gentle as they move over Shiro’s scalp, brush away cut hair from his nape and back. He’s close enough that Shiro could turn, could reach out and wrap his arms around Keith, rest his forehead on Keith’s chest.

(He wants to. He doesn’t.)

“Close your eyes,” Keith tells him, moving round to his front, and Shiro follows obediently. He feels Keith start in on his bangs, repressing a smile at how Keith still remembers how his hair used to look. Then the scissors get set away, and Shiro’s surprised when the sounds of rummaging are followed by the buzz of an electric razor. He feels it touch the sides of his head, and this time he can’t stop his grin.

“What?” Keith asks, lifting the razor away.

Shiro laughs softly. “It’s just – you don’t even need that. Your hair’s the same as ever.”

There’s a pause, one that stretches long enough that Shiro half-wants to open his eyes to see Keith’s expression. Then the razor touches his skin again, moving in careful lines over his scalp. Over the sound of it, he barely hears Keith say “I couldn’t toss it out.”

He doesn’t have a response for that.

Keith finishes up, dusting the fine hairs off his neck and shoulders. Shiro hears him set the equipment away and move aside, and only then does he open his eyes.

It cuts harder than expected, the sight of himself. But for the scar that cuts just under his eyes, he looks the way he used to, before everything started falling apart. Still not looking at Keith, Shiro lifts a hand to run through his freshly-cut hair, cropped close to his head, sides buzzed. The familiar fringe is now shock-white, but it – works. A corner of his mouth turns up as he thumbs over the scruff on his jaw.

“You can do that yourself,” Keith tells him, and there’s humor in his voice. Shiro finally glances his way, at their reflections in the mirror, and the look on Keith’s face—

Shiro drops his gaze.

“Thanks, Keith,” he says, soft, and it’s not just the haircut he’s talking about.

There’s a few moments before Keith exhales a little laugh, and turns to leave the room.

“Sure thing.”

 

Shiro gets them another fight at Arusia, wheedling with Allura. It’s just an undercard fight this time, small cashout, but it’s still a chance for Pidge to test out her bot. Shiro finds her on the morning of the fight already in the garage, fiddling with the bot’s front motion sensors.

“You okay?” he asks, tapping lightly on the doorframe.

Pidge flinches, turning around sharply. She sighs, expression sheepish when she recognizes who’s there.

“Yeah,” she replies, then sighs again. Her hands flutter over the bot’s open circuitry a bit more before she huffs and shuts the panel.

She’s nervous, Shiro knows. Understandable ahead of a fight, her first fight; he understands all too well. Shiro steps into the garage and tugs her around, then holds out a hand. She hesitates, then offers him her left one. He takes it in both his hands, thumbs rubbing small circles over her palm.

“The bot,” he says, carefully. “Give it a name yet?”

Pidge returns his smile gratefully, cheeks a little pink. She’s less like Matt when she’s like this, more open with her emotions that her brother had been. She looks at the bot for a few moments, mouth pinched in contemplation.

“Atlas,” she finally declares, nodding.

The corners of Shiro’s mouth quirk. “The man who carried the sky.”

“Pretty badass, don’t you think?” she quips, grinning, and Shiro has to laugh.

“It is.” He lets her hand go, and she leans into him easy as he shuffles her away from the bot. “Come on. Can’t win a bot fight with no breakfast.”

 

Shiro hadn’t actually planned on being back at Arusia so soon – hadn’t even meant to stay in Garrison City this long, really. He’d meant to leave once the first fight was done, moving over to the next city and the next match-up; moving away from Keith. But all his original intentions have been upended, although Shiro finds he doesn’t mind so much.

If Keith’s willing to let him stay, then he’ll stay.

They get to the underground ring. Shiro hauls the bot inside, lets Pidge run a systems check while he looks for Allura. Arusia’s manager comes up to them just as the night’s first fight ends, expression a little skeptical.

“Is this it?” she asks, looking Atlas up and down dubiously. “Where did you even get it on such short notice?”

“I built it.” Pidge’s voice doesn’t waver, although her hands fidget over the controls in her hand. She meets Allura’s eyes. “It’s my bot.”

“And you want to enter it in a fight?” Allura’s eyebrows go up, and she turns back to Shiro. “What about you? You’re vouching for her?”

Shiro glances over at Pidge, at the way she clutches Atlas’ vocal-response control unit to her chest. He thinks of all the hours she’d spent on the bot, working late into the night. The way she’d specifically asked _him_ to be the one who taught it to fight.

(He thinks about how he’s all she has left, him and Keith.)

“Yeah,” he says. He straightens up, turns to Allura. Nods. “Yeah, I am.”

Allura looks at him a few moments longer, expression searching, before sighing and lifting a shoulder. “Very well, then,” she concedes. “You’re the third fight of the night. You already know the rules. And—” She hesitates, then turns to Pidge with a small smile.

“Good luck.”

 

Their opponent for the night is a small-time bot, popular as an undercard fighter in Arusia. It’s no championship bout, but it’s enough for Pidge to test how well she’s built Atlas. She hooks up the vocal-response control unit, putting on the headset and adjusting the mic. Shiro really hopes all the noise from the crowd doesn’t fuck things up.

“You ready?” he asks, touching a hand lightly to her back. Pidge looks back up at him, then nods.

“Yeah.” She grips the controls and takes a deep breath.

Shiro nudges her forward.

 

They win.

It’s not the cleanest fight. Pidge had cut it close; her opponent, a tricky bot named Drazil, gets her cornered with a series of long-range hits from its spindly arms. But Pidge has built her own bot well, and it holds up under the onslaught long enough for Shiro to determine the weak spots in its joints that she can target.

From there, he gets her back into the fight, and then in control.

The result is a three-round victory, and the biggest smile on Pidge’s face.

“Atta girl,” Shiro says, grinning back at her. He reaches out again, then hesitates. Carefully, he opens his arms.

Pidge doesn’t hesitate. Her skinny arms go around his waist as she throws herself at him, burying her face in his chest.

“Thank you,” she says, so quietly he almost doesn’t hear her.

He pats her head and squeezes her a little tighter.

 

Keith’s waiting for them by the pickup when they emerge, leaning against the shotgun door. He _whoofs_ out a breath in surprise when Pidge runs up to him too, catching him in a tight hug. Shiro has to laugh at the bewildered expression on his face, even if it earns him a punch to the shoulder and a glare. He grins back shamelessly, going round back as Keith detaches himself from Pidge and walks over to help him load up the bot.

The drive back starts out lively. Pidge chatters excitedly with Keith about the fight, eager to go over everything that had happened and hear what he thinks. Keith indulges her until she starts yawning; he turns down the radio when it’s clear she’s fallen asleep. They continue in comfortable silence the rest of the way home.

Back at the gym, Keith goes in ahead to unlock the doors and the upstairs apartment while Shiro carefully lifts Pidge out of the pickup and into his arms. He carries her into the building, mindful when he goes up the stairs. To his surprise, Keith’s in their room when he arrives, placing Pidge’s stuff by her bed and turning down the blanket. He stands back to let Shiro put her down, then tucks her in, lifting her glasses off as gently as he can.

“She did good out there,” Keith says, patting down the blankets with a fond smile.

Shiro huffs a laugh under his breath. “Yeah, she did.” There had been a few nervous moments, but between his coaching and Pidge’s technical skills, they’d formed a surprisingly effective partnership. And it had been – exhilarating, watching Atlas fight, gauging its opponent’s moves, talking Pidge through what to do next.

It echoes memories of a lifetime ago, painful and sweet in his bones.

His lips quirk up as he brushes the hair from Pidge’s eyes, then he looks up to find Keith watching him with the oddest expression. It’s like something’s shuttered away. Shiro raises his eyebrows, but Keith just shakes his head with a tiny not-quite-smile.

“You did good out there too,” he says quietly, and the sincerity in his voice stuns Shiro, just a little.

He opens his mouth to say something, but comes up blank. There’s too many things he wants to ask Keith, to tell him, things that begin with _thank you_ and end with _I’m sorry,_ but nothing feels appropriate or adequate. He’s too afraid of saying the wrong thing, of bringing back that guarded look to Keith’s face.

“You helped,” he finally says; it’s the easiest confession. Shiro looks over at Keith and hopes his own sincerity comes through. “With her. And with me.”

He waits, half-holding his breath, watching to see if the other man’s expression changes. But Keith just sighs and looks back at Pidge.

“Get some rest, Shiro,” he says, and then he leaves the room.

It’s a while after that before Shiro falls asleep.

 

It’s easier than Shiro would like to admit for Pidge to convince him to get the bot lined up for another fight. He tells himself it’s partly for the money; bot fighting is his line of work now, and this is just killing two birds with one stone. But something warm curls in his chest as he heads back down to the garage to hustle Pidge to bed on another late night spent tinkering.

He’s getting better at not budging when she pouts at him and pleads for _five more minutes._

Once, halfway up the stairs, she stops, looking down at the floor. When Shiro turns to ask what’s wrong, he catches sight of the expression on her face and keeps silent.

“Would they have been proud of me?” Pidge finally asks, lifting her gaze. She’s been wanting to ask this for a while, Shiro can tell; he can hear it.

He pauses for a moment, trying to collect himself. Then with a sigh, he crosses the two steps down so he’s more level with her. His left hand lifts to cup her face.

“They’d be incredibly proud of you,” he says, honestly, because they would. More than anything, he knows Sam and Colleen would have wanted Pidge to be happy, no matter what she pursued. And Matt – Matt would have been over the moon that his little sister could build something so fantastic. It hits Shiro again, how unfair it is that she’s lost so much so young, but he just has to do right by her, for as long as she’s under his care.

(He doesn’t want to think, yet, about the _after._ )

“And so am I,” he adds, because he is. Pidge handles grief better than he ever had; she’s stronger than he ever could be.

She hiccups, then, a tiny sob, and then Shiro finds himself with an armful of teenage girl. His hands hover awkwardly before he settles them on her back, smoothing down her shirt.

“I miss them,” she says, voice so small, and Shiro hugs her tighter.

“Yeah,” he admits. “Me too.”

He misses a lot of things, in truth. Even things that are just on the other side of the room, but feel infinitely out of reach.

 

Their next bot fight, wrangled with some help from Allura, is in the next city over. It’s a two-hour trip to Balmeran, plus the overnight stay ahead of the fight, and from there Shiro’s seriously looking at picking up a whole series of matches to earn better money, start making a reputation. Pidge is wholly on board with this, but there’s also the matter of—

“You’re leaving,” Keith says categorically, as he wipes down the drinks bar. Shiro leans back against the counter and fiddles with an apple, passing it back and forth between his hands.

“I have to look after her, don’t I?” Shiro points out, fingers closing over the fruit. He’s trying very hard not to think of the other conversations they’ve had here in this very space, late at night, about him leaving. It doesn’t work.

Keith just hums in acknowledgement, going back to putting away the glasses. Shiro watches him work, smooth and methodical as always. No movement wasted, whether he’s cooking or cleaning or catching someone out with a one-two punch.

(Shiro looks at him, and he can still hear Keith’s voice: _if you’re going to keep leaving, Shiro, why don’t you just stay gone._ )

He takes a breath and sets the apple down.

“I can’t ask you to come with us,” he tells Keith, and god, Shiro hopes he doesn’t sound as unsteady as he feels. “I don’t – I don’t have the right. But—”

He bites his lip and looks up. “There’s room for you, too,” he says quietly, fervently.

Keith’s silent for a long moment. The fingers of Shiro’s prosthetic curl into his palm. Too little, perhaps; too little, too hesitant, too late.

Then Keith sighs and holds out a hand. “Can you hand me the cleaning cloth.”

Shiro exhales a brittle smile and reaches out, passing the microfiber towel over. He moves aside to let Keith finish wiping down the towel, taking the fruit with him.

They tidy up the rest of the bar together in silence.

 

In the morning, Shiro helps Pidge haul Atlas out to the trailer, which is already hitched to the back of the pickup. Most of their stuff is already in the back of the car, too. Pidge is still half-asleep, scrubbing a hand over her eyes as she shoves her backpack into the backseat.

Shiro comes round to the driver’s side just in time to see Keith hauling two duffel bags out to the car.

“What,” he says, eloquently. Keith pauses in the driveway, eyebrows going up, expression daring Shiro to say no. Shiro doesn’t, although it’s a near thing; he settles for clearing his throat. “You don’t have to—”

“I know.” Keith chucks the bags into the back of the pickup, then pulls the cover down. He heads towards the passenger side. “But someone has to make sure you two don’t get yourselves killed.”

It leaves Shiro speechless for a few moments, sure this isn’t really happening. But then Keith slides into the shotgun seat, looking at Shiro expectantly. Pidge is already sprawled across the back, headphones in, completely comfortable.

All right. This is happening, then.

He gets into the driver’s seat and shuts the door. They should probably talk about this – about Keith leaving the gym closed for an indefinite period of time, about Keith being here at all, but part of Shiro is afraid that if he questions it, Keith will get out of the car and he won’t come back.

He starts the car.

Keith turns up the radio as they drive away.

 

This is how it goes:

They move from city to city, sometimes staying just a few days, sometimes a few weeks. Shiro has to pull strings to get him and Pidge their first few fights, call in favors and wheedle with old acquaintances. But as they pick up wins, their reputation rises – small, at first, little pockets of recognition, but growing and growing with every bot they take down.

Kova. Haxus. Baku. Ranveig. Between Pidge’s programming and Shiro’s strategy, they take them all down.

Pidge grins as she shows Shiro her social media feeds, all the news bits about the teenage girl and her hand-built fighter bot emerging as a contender in the bot fighting scene. They call her an _upstart,_ a brave rookie; they call her _fearless,_ and she is. Soon Allura’s calling Shiro to tell him someone’s requesting a match, and people come up to them after fights with challenges and requests.

It’s new, and at the same time, all too familiar. More than once, Shiro finds himself thinking back to a different kind of fight, a different set of people talking loudly around him. But he’s not that person anymore, hasn’t been in a long, long time. He’s not sure if there’s any of that person left.

Keith, though – Keith makes him want to be that person again.

Keith doesn’t watch any of their fights, prefers to pick up temp work at a local garage or go off on his own. It gives them a little extra money, of course, but Shiro knows it’s also partly because Keith just… doesn’t want to be there. Time and time again he tries to work up the courage to ask Keith to come with them, to say he feels better when Keith’s there, to tell Keith – something, anything. To salvage something between them.

Time and time again, he backs down.

Some weeks after this whole trip started, after their latest win, someone approaches Shiro and Pidge – a tall, broad man, far better dressed than most people they encounter at bot fights. He waves a card in their faces.

“Takashi Shirogane, right?” he says, and Shiro suppresses a wince at the mangled pronunciation. He smiles as politely as he can manage.

“Yes?” he asks, shifting a little so he shields Pidge and Atlas.

“Throk.” The man hands over the card. Shiro doesn’t recognize the name, but he knows the purple logo stamped prominently on one side of the card. This man works for Galra Production, one of the main presenters of ZERO Championship – the premier bot fighting tournament.

Shiro looks up at Throk warily, taking the card. “Can we help you?”

“That bot of yours.” Throk nods at where Atlas sits in its cart, powered down. Pidge moves towards it protectively. Throk just smiles. “Ever think of entering it in a ZERO fight?”

 

Pidge is the one who breaks the news to Keith.

She bursts into the motel room, talking a mile a minute, unable to believe their luck. Shiro follows at a much calmer pace, smiling fondly. It takes a few minutes for Keith to get Pidge to tell the story coherently and completely, but when he gets it, his grin is as big as hers.

“They booked you a fight with _Myzax?_ ” he asks, incredulous, looking up at Shiro.

“Undercard of a ZERO Championship fight,” Shiro answers, shrugging. He can’t quite suppress his own grin. “Apparently a certain kid’s been making waves across the bot scene.”

“He said they’d been watching Atlas fight.” Pidge tugs on Keith’s arm, unable to contain herself. “ _Galra Production_ has been watching my bot, Keith, can you believe it?”

Something flickers across Keith’s face, a there-and-gone-again, then he has Pidge in a headlock and is messing up her hair. “Of course I can believe it, punk,” he says affectionately. “You’ve been winning all sorts of fights, how could they not notice you.”

Pidge wriggles out of his grip, then throws her arms around him and buries her face in his chest. Keith hesitates just a moment before trapping her in a hug. He smiles down at her, then glances back up at Shiro. “When’s the fight?”

Shiro has to check his phone for the details. “Two weeks, over in the Kral Zera arena. Galra Production wants a feature first, interview me and Pidge about the bot. They said they’d put us up in a hotel for a few days.”

“Huh. That’s generous.” Keith relinquishes his hold on Pidge and hunts down his own phone, presumably to check the dates.

“They said it’s part of the payment for the fight.” Shiro grins over at Pidge, who beams right back. “Ready for the big time, kid?”

Pidge throws herself down onto one of the beds with a happy sigh.

“You bet.”

 

They make a brief stop back at the gym so Keith can check things over. Turns out he’d left an old friend in charge of the place while they’d been gone. Shiro takes to Hunk right away, less to his friend Lance – who, as it turns out, has been trying to woo Allura for weeks.

“Good luck with that,” Shiro tells him, and means it.

They head off again once Keith’s gotten everything sorted, making it to Daizal City in good time. The Kral Zera arena is hard to miss, even without all the lights. The structure looms large in the center of the city, and Shiro feels more than a little apprehensive as he parks the pickup and climbs out.

He remembers being here, what feels like a lifetime ago, fighting a different fight. If he closes his eyes, he can still picture the massive screen on the arena facade flashing his face, dozens of feet high. _Shiro the Hero,_ they’d called him.

Now, the screen broadcasts the highlight fight for the night – the undefeated ZERO Championship titleholder. Shiro has seen Sincline fight, is aware of the reputation its backer and its designer have.

He doesn’t look up again as they make their way inside.

Throk meets them backstage, all smiles and diplomacy. They go over the fine details of the fight – the prize money, the rules, the contracts. Pidge is almost vibrating in excitement beside Shiro, and more than once Keith has to remind her to calm down.

In the end, they get everything hashed out, and Shiro signs the contract with only the slightest hesitation.

Throk stands with another polite smile.

“I look forward to the fight,” he says holding out a hand for Shiro to take – the left one. Shiro tries not to let his expression waver. Throk turns to Pidge and ruffles her hair. “Wanna stay for the one tonight? I can get you into Galra Production’s VIP booth. Sincline against Blaytz – it’s gonna be a good one.”

Shiro’s about to say no, thank you, but Pidge’s face lights up in the way she gets around bots and Shiro already knows he’s going to cave. He glances over to Keith, who shrugs, expression neutral.

“Can we?” Pidge asks, turning big, pleading eyes to Shiro.

He sighs, then turns to Throk. “Thank you,” he says, and hopes he sounds sincere. “We’d be delighted.”

 

In the end, it isn’t much of a fight.

Sincline pummels its opponent in two rounds flat; by the time the bell rings, Shiro can tell the other bot’s better off salvaged for scraps then being repaired. He searches the ringside, but as usual, only Sincline’s prepossessing backer is watching. Pidge is absolutely delighted; she’d put up a running commentary the whole fight, and is still chatting away with Keith.

“They say Sincline’s unbeatable,” she’s telling him. “The first time I watched it fight, they were saying it was designed to adapt to its opponents – it’s a learning bot, it can adjust to attack patterns, defensive strategies.”

She sighs wistfully and looks to where Sincline’s blue-haired backer – Acxa, Shiro thinks she’s called – walks out of the arena at the head of the bot’s entourage. “The designer’s amazing. I wish he wasn’t so secretive about the specs – he’s hardly even seen on the bot scene. I’d _love_ to see Sincline up close.”

“I’m sure your bot is better,” Keith teases, herding her out of the VIP booth. “Who knows, if you win tomorrow, you might get the chance to find out.”

Later, Shiro will look back and blame this moment for what happens after. As it is, he just laughs as Pidge turns wide eyes to Keith and gasps, “really?”

“One fight at a time, guys,” Shiro says, leading them out of the building. “One fight at a time.”

 

If there’s one thing to be said about Galra Production, it’s that they spare no expense. Throk has set the three of them up in a _suite_ of all things – one big room for Keith and Shiro, an adjacent one for Pidge. She’s quick to jump onto the large, soft bed, bouncing happily as the sheets puff up around her.

“All right, easy there, champ,” Shiro quips, helping set her stuff down by the closet. He’s admittedly a little overwhelmed himself, though; the place is definitely a far cry from the motels they’ve been staying at all this time. “We’ve got an early start tomorrow.”

“There’s a _tub,_ ” Pidge exhales in awe, disappearing into the bathroom, ignoring Shiro entirely. He sighs in fond exasperation, turning his head when he hears Keith’s faint laugh from their own room.

“Let her be, Shiro,” Keith says, setting out his own bags by the foot of one of the beds. Shiro huffs a smile as he closes the door to Pidge’s room and moves to unpack his own stuff.

(He tries not to think about how comfortable it feels, being with them like this. Being with _Keith_ like this. He almost manages.)

They get settled, then get dinner, out in the bright lights of Daizal City. When they get back, Shiro sends Pidge off to bed over her protests, telling her it’s going to be a long day tomorrow and they need to rest. She makes a face as he closes the door on her, but the lights in her room shut off soon after.

Contrary to his own advice, Shiro’s sleep is restless; he feels on edge the whole night, like he can’t get comfortable. If Keith notices, he doesn’t let on, but he gets up a little after Shiro does, well before breakfast. Shiro looks up in surprise as Keith steps into the bathroom after him, brow slightly furrowed.

“You’re up early,” Keith says around a yawn.

Shiro huffs out a small, humorless laugh. “Couldn’t sleep.” He’s meant to be shaving, maybe trimming his hair a bit, but his hands haven’t moved towards the foam or the razor. He hasn’t done much of anything, really, except stand in the bathroom and breathe.

Keith looks at him for a few more moments, then sighs. “Idiot,” he mutters, then he nudges Shiro over.

A little later and Shiro finds himself with shaving foam over his jaw, standing between Keith’s legs while Keith sits on the bathroom counter. He has a straight razor in hand, because of course he has one. Shiro shuts his eyes and feels the way the blade skims over his skin, the touch of Keith’s fingers to his jaw. It’s startlingly intimate, and it’s the same as all those weeks ago with Shiro on a stool in Keith’s bathroom, but also it’s not, it’s not. There’s no sound but for the light graze of the razor and their combined breathing, and Shiro’s hands crumple into fists because the urge to touch Keith is still there.

 _Let me know if I hurt you,_ Keith had said, that time and now, and Shiro doesn’t know how to say that it hurts just to breathe around Keith, because Keith is still everything he wants but is still everything he can’t have.

The blade glides over his jaw. Shiro opens his hands and lays his palms on Keith’s thighs. He wonders how warm the other man’s skin would be, under the fabric of his sweatpants, under Shiro’s touch.

Then the straight razor clicks shut. Shiro feels Keith lean away. “All done,” the other man says, and the tenuous atmosphere between them shatters. He steps away and opens his eyes, runs a hand over his jaw, and tries to smile.

“Thank you,” he says softly.

Keith reaches out, hesitates, and Shiro’s breath catches as he fights not to tip his cheek into that waiting palm. Then Keith swipes off a stray smudge of foam with a thumb. His hand drops to his side as he gets up.

“I’ll let you get dressed,” he says.

The click of the bathroom door feels unnaturally loud as he leaves.

 

The interview is awkward. Shiro’s forgotten what it’s like to be in front of all the cameras and lights, and even then, it had been the part of his career he’d liked least. He leaves most of the talking to Pidge, lets her tell the host – a peppy man named Bob – about how she’d built the bot, about her interest in bots and fights, about their victories up to now. Keith hasn’t joined them, which has Shiro feeling more unmoored than usual. He thinks he might have done better if the other man had been here, even just behind the camera somewhere.

For all he knows that this feature is important, that it’s a big deal, Shiro’s still glad when it’s finally over.

They meet up with Keith back at the hotel, and Keith asks after the interview over lunch. His knee touches Shiro’s under the table, and neither of them move away. Shiro feels hyper-aware of every movement the other man makes, of every time Keith looks at him. There’s a static under his skin that thrums and makes him feel like he’s shaking.

Then it’s time to leave for Kral Zera, and the static sinks into Shiro until he feels like drowning.

The din of the arena is deafening, just as it was the last time he’d been here. The banners around the walls are different, the screens flashing stats for the bots instead of human fighters. But if Shiro closes his eyes, he can almost pretend it’s a few years ago and he’s a younger man, gloves on his hands and all of the world watching.

Then he opens his eyes, and helps Pidge bring Atlas to the ring.

Their opponent, Myzax, is already in the ring. Its handler makes it strut around, its large right hand – the primary weapon – raised and punching the air. The crowd roars its approval; Myzax is a popular ZERO Championship fighter, a mainstay on Galra Production’s roster. Its record isn’t as impressive as Sincline’s, but it’s still a ruthless fighter.

And Pidge has to beat it.

The noise levels rise improbably as they get to the ring, a mix of cheers and boos. Briefly, Shiro wonders what the betting pools have put up as odds; he’s fairly sure they’re not favoring Atlas to win. Beside him, Pidge looks a little pale under the harsh arena lights, but there’s a determined set to her shoulders as she goes about checking Atlas’ systems and making sure everything’s functioning properly.

Shiro watches her work, hands forcibly steady, and feels oddly proud of her.

A ZERO Championship rep comes up to them, checking in to make sure they’re good to go. Once everything’s settled, they’re left in their respective corner, and the announcer gets into the ring.

“Hello, ZERO Championship fans!” he booms, gesturing for the crowd to make some noise. They oblige, screaming back in response. “We’ve got a damn good fight scheduled for you all this fine evening, and I hope you’re all ready for it!”

Shiro’s hands flex at his sides, opening and closing into fists.

“Representing ZERO Championship, with its impressive record at stake, is a crowd favorite. I know it, you know it, and we’ve all seen it hammer its opponents to a pulp. Undefeated here at Kral Zera and riding a hot five-match winning streak, we have our arena champion – _Myzax!”_

The announcer draws the last syllable out, gesturing grandly towards the hulking bot, which stomps its feet and thumps its chest. Its handler leers from the other side of the ring. The crowd thunders in response, until it feels like Shiro’s very bones are shaking from the reverberations. Pidge presses to his side, clutching the control unit to her chest.

She’s frightened, he can tell. There’s a big, big difference between fights in underground bot rings and small-time competitions, and fights on centerstage with a whole country watching. Everything – the noise, the opponent, the crowd; the very atmosphere of the place that feels almost tangible, like it’s clutching at a person’s skin and filling their lungs – it all gets to even the best of fighters. So he takes a steadying breath, then wraps an arm around her shoulders and squeezes her tight to his side.

The announcer turns to them with a smirk.

“And in the challenger’s corner,” he calls, sticking a hand out to point at them, “is a bot that’s been making waves all across the scene these last few months. People call it _upstart,_ they call it _fearless._ There’s a rookie in town, folks, and she’s been taking the fight to every bot she meets. Let’s give a warm, ruckus welcome to the newest bot into our ring – the brave, the daring _Atlas!”_

The noise rises again, the boos and the cheers, but Shiro ignores it all and ducks down so he’s eye to eye with Pidge. He braces his hands on her shoulders and grips her firmly.

“Listen,” he says, just loud enough so she can hear him. “You’re nervous, I know. It’s a big fight. There’s a lot at stake. But _you_ built this bot, you fight with it, and you’ve earned the right to be here.”

He exhales and smiles at her, gentle and reassuring. “A good man once told me that if you get too worried about what could go wrong, you might miss the chance to do something great.” He watches her expression, watches as it goes from anxiousness to realization to a tentative, answering smile. Then he straightens up, and pushes her gently towards the ring.

“Let’s go.”

 

It takes four rounds, and by the end of it Shiro’s hair is matted to his forehead and his throat feels a little raspy from all the shouting he’d done to be heard over the din. Pidge looks similarly disheveled, but there’s red high on her cheeks and the biggest grin on her face as she looks at where Atlas has its arms raised triumphantly, while Myzax is crumpled on the floor.

They’ve won.

It’s the hardest fight they’ve had so far, and both bot and handler were pushed to the edge. Myzax’ three-hit combo – ending with a wallop of a punch from its oversized right fist – has taken down a long line of opponents. But Shiro had watched, and had seen it – the cool-down moment every third hit, where Myzax would pull back and charge its arm back up.

It’s a simple enough plan to take advantage of the opening, and from there, it had been all Atlas to the end.

The crowd roars the countdown – _ten, nine, eight_ – and then the referee signals the out, the arena erupts around them.

Shiro’s about to clap Pidge on the shoulder and congratulate her, tell her that she’d done _really_ well down here, when abruptly she shoves the control unit into his hands. Then before he can ask, or say anything at all to stop her, she’s wriggling under the ropes and into the ring. The announcer startles as she snatches the mic from his grip and clambers up one of the padded corners.

“ZERO Championship!” she yells, voice tinny over the sound system. Shiro stares at her in shock and disbelief. “My bot just beat a Galra Production champion in an actual promotional fight. This bot, a bot I built from scratch. How’s that for a fight!” The crowd cheers back in approval. Pidge turns and, to Shiro’s utter astonishment, gestures right to the Galra Production VIP booth.

“So if you’re listening, Lotor,” she calls, as the crowd screams around them, “how about you give a small timer a big shot? You and me. Atlas against Sincline. One on one, in any arena, any time you like.”

She hops off the padding and joins her bot, raising her hands to the crowd. “We’ll be waiting,” she adds, and then drops the mic to the floor. The press swarms her, cameras clicking away, reporters pressing to the ring and shouting at her. They surround Shiro too, and it’s the flash of bulbs that jolts him out of his daze and gets him moving. He gets into the ring, hustles Pidge out, bot following behind them.

The crowd is still chanting Atlas’ name as they leave.

 

Shiro waits until they’re both in the pickup, bot safely in the trailer, before he has at it.

“What were you thinking?” he hisses, turning to her, breathing unsteady. She glares right back at him, face splotchy in exertion and defiance.

“I said what I said.” God, she’s stubborn. Pidge crosses her arms and throws herself back into the seat. “We’ve got nothing to lose by challenging them. If we’ve got a shot, we should take it.” Her mouth twists into a pout as she looks sideways at Shiro. “You’re the one who said we shouldn’t miss the chance to do something great.”

Shiro stares at her for a few moments, stunned. She glowers back at him, unrepentant. There is a small, breathtaking moment when Shiro realizes just how far she’s come since she’d first showed up on Keith’s doorstep, sullen and withdrawn.

He exhales, smiling despite himself, and runs a hand through his hair. His shoulders shake in a suppressed laugh.

“What?” Pidge snaps, although her expression’s turned a bit more uncertain.

“You,” he says, honestly and warmly, “are incredible.”

This time it’s Pidge’s turn to look like she’s at a loss for words. She fidgets a few moments, chewing her lip, then flicking her eyes back to Shiro.

“Really?” she asks, voice small.

“Really.” Shiro reaches out and ruffles her hair, then sighs again. “What kind of sixteen-year-old challenges the defending ZERO Championship titleholder to a fight, just like that?”

Her answering laugh is bright and clear. “Me, that’s who.”

 

Keith’s own expression is a mix of pride, resignation, and affection when he greets them back at the hotel.

“You are _unbelievable_ ,” he tells Pidge, getting her in a headlock and messing up her hair. “Do you like driving my blood pressure up, is that it? Do you?” Still, he’s grinning, tugging a laughing Pidge into his arms for a hug.

“One for the little guy, huh,” he says, and Pidge laughs again.

“We’ll show them,” she answers, smug, and shrieks as Keith tickles her.

They go out to celebrate. Keith gets tipsy on the wine, indulging Pidge as she goes through yet another rendition of their fight, clearly adding more embellishments each time. Shiro watches them fondly, chuckling under his breath. Then Keith glances up and catches his eye, and Shiro’s breath catches in his throat, because the way Keith’s looking at him—

The feeling lingers even as they finish dinner, even as they drive home in growing quiet as Pidge starts to nod off, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up to her. Shiro half-carries her to her room, smiling softly at her mumbled _good night._ He lingers at her bedside, reluctant to return to his room and to Keith. He’s not sure what he wants to do – or he is, but he’s not sure he can do it. Not sure he’ll be allowed to do it.

Keith’s reading on his tablet when Shiro gets back. He looks up as Shiro enters the room, shuffling around to get his things and get ready for bed. There’s a wry twist to his mouth, a far cry from the tight press of lips when Shiro had first arrived back in Garrison City.

“You were pretty good out there too,” he quips, lowering his tablet to his lap.

Shiro snorts, but his lips turn up regardless. “It’s her bot,” he counters with a shrug. “She’s the one controlling Atlas in the fight.”

Keith tips his head to the side, eyes narrowed slightly, like he’s scrutinizing Shiro. Across the beds, Shiro clutches at his sweatpants and tries not to fidget. Finally, Keith sighs and turns back to his tablet, reopening whatever he’d been looking at before Shiro had come in.

“You could give yourself some more credit, you know,” he says offhandedly, tracing a finger over the screen. Shiro looks at him – all the lines of him that are familiar now, again; the way his hair falls soft over his face and shoulders; the oversized shirt he wears that Shiro realizes might have been his, a lifetime ago, its real ownership forgotten now. He looks at Keith and the feeling, the restlessness, blooms over his skin and in his lungs.

He glances away and heads to the bathroom to clean up.

Keith’s asleep when he comes back.

 

Shiro sleeps restlessly again, waking in the grey light of dawn. To his surprise, Keith’s bed is empty, sheets pushed back and pillows in disarray. Sitting up, Shiro looks around and finds the door to the small balcony slightly open.

When he peeks outside, Keith’s standing there, leaning against the railing. He’s wearing a hoodie unzipped over his shirt, sleeves pulled up over his hands and hem cutting off at his bare thighs. The early morning sunlight paints him rose and gold, dappling his hair and coloring his cheeks.

He’s breathtaking. To Shiro, he always has been.

Then he glances over to Shiro, and his smile is sleep-soft and sweet, so painfully easy. As if the last few years had never happened; as if Shiro hadn’t gone and put all that distance between them and run away. As if Keith still, somehow, improbably, loves him.

(And the truth that Shiro has been trying to ignore, trying to hide away; the truth that even now sits in the spaces between his ribs and ruins him – he’s never stopped being in love with Keith.)

“Hey,” Keith murmurs, half-turning to him. The pebble flooring is cold under Shiro’s feet as he steps out to join the other man. Slowly, as if in a dream, Shiro reaches out and slides a hand over Keith’s waist, feeling for the warmth of him under layers of fabric.

“You’re up early,” Shiro says, an echo of yesterday morning, and Keith laughs quietly.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he replies wryly, and when he looks up at Shiro, his expression is soft.

There’s no force on Earth that could have stopped Shiro from leaning in and kissing him.

It starts soft, tentative, the faintest brush of lips. Shiro gets bolder when Keith inhales sharply but doesn’t pull away. He presses his mouth to Keith’s, sliding his arms around the other man’s waist and tugging him close, until Keith’s leaning on him. It’s achingly familiar; Shiro wants to relearn this, the way Keith fits against him, the way he feels in Shiro’s embrace.

He pulls away, breath coming short, lips scant inches from Keith’s.

“Can I—” he starts, then stops, hands clutching at the fabric of Keith’s hoodie. Shiro shuts his eyes and presses their foreheads together. He feels oddly heartbroken.

“Just give me this,” he breathes out, threading a hand through Keith’s hair. “Please, just this. I want to feel you.”

(Shiro has never been able to deny himself around Keith, has always been weak to this firebright boy and the way he makes Shiro feel. Keith has always managed to wreck him out of any sense of control or inhibition.

Shiro’s got it so bad. Always has.)

And Keith – Keith makes a broken noise, fingers crumpling the fabric of Shiro’s shirt. Shiro can feel their unsteadiness against his chest. He wants to open his eyes, see the expression on Keith’s face, but he doesn’t dare, not now, not yet, not while he’s waiting.

Then Keith’s grip tightens, and his voice is a moment of surrender as he says, “okay.”

The word is barely out in the small space between them before Shiro presses his mouth to Keith’s hair, hands spanning the other man’s hips and dragging him against Shiro – everything Shiro had told himself he could never ask for again, could never have again. Keith arches into his touch, leans his head for Shiro to drag teeth down the line of his throat. He moans and Shiro swallows it down.

They stumble back to bed together, the rest of the world forgotten, hands all over all the skin they can reach. Shiro tugs the hoodie off Keith’s shoulders, pulls the shirt over his head, litters kisses over slender shoulders and collar. Keith gasps as Shiro hefts him onto the bed – whose, he doesn’t know and doesn’t care – then Shiro shucks his own clothes and crawls up over him, and locks their mouths together again.

It’s easy, so easy, to fall back together. Keith’s hands find his hair as Shiro kisses a line down his body, over his chest and further, until Keith’s cock nudges his mouth. He licks eagerly, breath hot over skin, teasing Keith’s inner thighs with his teeth. Then he opens up and takes Keith in, laving his tongue over the heat of Keith, sucking and swallowing and bobbing his head until the other man has to clasp a hand over his own mouth to muffle his voice. There isn’t much finesse – Shiro hasn’t done this in a while – but he makes up for it in enthusiasm. He hollows his cheeks, twists his hand over what his mouth can’t take down. It’s sloppy but it’s still enough to tip Keith over the edge, shout caught in his palm as he comes down Shiro’s throat.

He pulls back with a swallow, swiping the back of his hand over his lips before he pushes up to kiss Keith again, slow and deep and hungry. One hand skims over Keith’s body, down his waist and under his thigh to brush fingers over a tight hole. Keith makes another fractured noise and grinds his hips down, fingers digging into Shiro’s shoulders, teeth catching Shiro’s bottom lip.

There’s a brief fumble for lube, and Shiro gets two fingers slick – then abruptly drops the small bottle as Keith gets on hands and knees and closes a hot mouth over Shiro’s cock. He gets it sloppy with spit, suckling lightly, smugness in the corners of his eyes as he looks up. Shiro grits his teeth and tugs on Keith’s hair until the other man finally backs off, lips spit-slick and red, turned up in a smirk. He topples Keith back onto the sheets with a glare.

“Brat,” Shiro growls, and whatever witty retort Keith has is lost as Shiro slides a finger inside him.

He fingers Keith open carefully, thoroughly, ignoring the way Keith bucks against him and gasps for _more, Shiro, come on._ He ducks down, mouthing a hot line up Keith’s right side as he slides a second finger in, and by the time he gets in a third, Keith’s shaking underneath him. His cock is hard again, heavy over his pelvis; Shiro licks over it and then down between Keith’s thighs until his tongue joins his fingers and Keith’s almost sobbing for it.

“I want to ruin you,” he murmurs against the plush skin of Keith’s inner thigh, and Keith sobs _god, yes_ in response.

The first slide of his cock into Keith’s hole makes them both groan. Shiro hikes Keith’s legs up over his hips. His prosthetic braces on the mattress as his other hand holds Keith open. They start slow; Shiro rocks into Keith, small thrusts of his hips that turn wilder as Keith arches up to meet him. They kiss, sloppy and heated, until Shiro starts fucking into Keith harder, and then they pant against each other’s mouths, breath hot over skin. Keith bites at his chest, his shoulders, making Shiro grit his teeth to stop from making too much noise.

When Keith reaches down to start stroking himself, Shiro bats his hand away.

“No,” he bites out, shifting Keith’s legs so they hook over his shoulders and he can fuck into Keith deeper. “No, I want you to come like this. From my cock, me fucking you.”

Keith makes another broken noise, hands falling back to clutch at the pillows overhead. He arches, writhing under Shiro’s relentless thrusts, clenching around Shiro’s cock.

“Fuck,” he gasps, cracked and breathless, “fuck – _Takashi_ –”

He comes like that, head thrown back, voice shattering around Shiro’s name. Shiro buries his face in Keith’s throat and drives his cock into Keith until he makes a fractured sound of his own and follows, filling Keith up.

 

They lie together for a few moments, catching their breaths. Shiro eases them onto their sides, pulling out of Keith with a sticky trickle of cum. Absentmindedly, he pets at Keith, palms smoothing over overwarm skin. Keith curls against him, one hand laid tentatively on Shiro’s bicep, as if even after all this, he’s uncertain if he’s allowed to touch.

They doze off together, and Shiro wakes first this time, blinking awake in the brighter sunlight. He turns to find Keith tucked against him, hair falling over his face. For a few moments Shiro just watches the rise and fall of his chest, looks at the way Keith’s mouth is still kiss-bruised, at the small red marks on his skin.

He remembers how Keith’s voice had broken around his name. Shiro hadn’t thought he’d ever hear Keith call him _Takashi_ ever again.

It sobers him more than cold water to the face, because this isn’t permanent. Because Iverson will call any day now to say they’ve found a better arrangement for Pidge; because Keith won’t have a reason to stay by Shiro’s side anymore; because Shiro will have nothing to keep him.

Because Shiro still thinks Keith deserves better than him.

His limbs feel heavy as he pries himself as gently as he can from the bed, trying not to wake the other man up. A few steps around the bed bring him to his shirt, then his underwear. He’s just tugging his sweatpants on when Keith groans and pushes up on an elbow, scrubbing a hand over his eyes, brow furrowed in confusion.

“What time is it?” he mumbles, half around a yawn.

Shiro fumbles for his phone over on the bedside table.

“Half-ten,” he answers, deliberately not looking at Keith. Pidge might be awake by now; they’ll need to go get breakfast. _Pidge._ God, this is going to be awkward. Swallowing down his apprehension, Shiro shuffles over to his suitcase, digging around for something, anything to wear. The silence drags out between them, until Keith makes a frustrated sound and sits up.

“Will you _stop_ that,” he snaps, and Shiro looks up to find Keith scowling at him. The sheets mercifully pool over his hips, but he’s still naked. Shiro averts his eyes.

“Stop what?” he asks, as if he doesn’t know, as if he hasn’t done this before.

“You’re shutting off again,” Keith says, visibly pissed. He shoves off the bed, snatching up his own clothes and yanking them on so he can stand and face Shiro. “Stop – I don’t know, _running away,_ don’t do that again, Shiro, not this time.”

“I’m—”

“Don’t you fucking dare say you’re not.” Keith cuts him off, crossing his arms over his bare chest. “What are you – _why_ are you – what is your problem? Is it me?” There’s a break in his voice that makes Shiro’s head snap up, guilt flooding through him. Keith exhales and drops his arms. “Is that it? Am I still not enough for you?”

“ _No._ ” The word is ripped from Shiro, harsh, desperate, because the way Keith looks – as if it’s been eating away at him, as if he’s wanted to ask but Shiro’s never been around to let him. Shiro grits his teeth, fingers digging half-moons into his palm. “No, it’s not, it’s never – I just—”

He breaks off. Keith’s expression tightens. “You just _what?”_ he insists.

Shiro hesitates, then sighs. “I just – I don’t deserve you.” He shakes his head when Keith opens his mouth to protest. “I don’t. I hurt you, I’m _still_ hurting you, and we’re – things are different now. This isn’t permanent – Pidge, you and me, it’s not, it can’t be. And I don’t want you to be stuck with someone… broken.”

“ _Stuck._ ” Keith stares at him, all wide eyes and hurt. Shiro takes the coward’s way out and looks away. They stand there at an impasse, all the fight drained out of them both.

“How about you let me decide that for myself, for once,” Keith says, voice impressively steady, and it feels just like how Shiro had left, all those months ago, except this time it’s Keith who walks away.

 

It’s a long while before Shiro can bring himself to knock on Pidge’s door. He’s haphazardly dressed, not that it matters. Keith isn’t answering his phone – not that Shiro had expected him to – but they still need to get breakfast before they get back on the road.

When Pidge doesn’t answer, Shiro waits a few moments before tentatively opening the door.

He finds her awake and still in bed, huddled on her sheets, clutching a pillow to her chest. She doesn’t look up.

“Pidge?” he calls hesitantly.

In response, she hunches up tighter. Shiro can’t lie or make excuses; he already knows, from the look on her face, that she’d heard everything. His argument with Keith hadn’t exactly been… subtle. He glances at her and doesn’t know if he should apologize or explain himself or leave her alone.

In the end, he settles for a sigh. “We should get breakfast,” he says, and it sounds pathetic even to him. But slowly, she unfolds from the bed, getting to her feet and shuffling to the door.

“That was a mess,” she tells Shiro flatly.

Shiro purses his lips and looks away. On that, at least, they can agree.

 

When they get back to the room after breakfast, all of Keith’s things are gone.

 

They end up staying another night, because Galra Production gives them a call and tells them to come back to the Kral Zera arena. Shiro stares in disbelief as Throk grins and hands over a contract for a one-time-only fight against Sincline.

“Seems your little stunt worked,” Throk tells Pidge, who smirks back at him.

“Would’ve lost face if they hadn’t agreed,” she points out, and Throk laughs, but she does have a point.

The contract is simple. One fight, maximum of six rounds, three minutes each round. First to submission, knock-out, or destruction. There’s no title on the line – Atlas isn’t on the ZERO Championship roster, and hasn’t been fighting long enough to earn a shot – but there’s still more than enough at stake.

The payout is – well. Shiro thinks _generous_ doesn’t quite cover it.

“Your bot’s gotten very popular” Throk tells them when Shiro raises his eyebrows at the clauses. “It’s a very high-profile fight. You should hear the talk on the street – they’ve taken to calling you _Champion._ ”

It should make Shiro laugh. He should be over the moon about this – a top tier, pay-per-view fight against the best bot in the world. And he _is_ satisfied, he is, it’s just.

Shiro signs the papers with a little more force than necessary and tries not to feel too raw, too cracked open.

“I’m looking forward to this immensely,” Throk says as he takes the papers back, and Pidge is the one who answers for them both.

“So are we.”

 

Shiro’s packing up his stuff when Pidge shows up.

“Are you going back to him?” she asks, with no preamble, looking right at him.

Shiro pauses where he’s folding a shirt, almost losing his grip on the fabric. He stares at the stacks of clothes in his suitcase.

“Galra Production is putting us up in another hotel near the MFE Arena,” he answers, except it’s not really an answer. He’s deflecting and he knows it.

Pidge watches him a few more moments, then sighs. She says something under her breath, but Shiro doesn’t catch it, and before he can think to ask, she’s disappeared back into her room.

 

The drive back to Garrison City is quiet and stilted. Pidge spends most of it on her phone, reviewing videos of Sincline’s fights. The titleholder bot is to Myzax what Myzax would be to the first bot they’d ever fought, or perhaps it’s not comparison enough. Shiro’s seen Sincline fight; its speed and agility are incomparable, and its adaptive functions mean it always gets the better of whatever bot is up against it. It’s been said that the bot is designed to be invincible, and so far, it’s held up true to those words.

Privately, Shiro doesn’t quite think they can win, but he’s hoping they give it a good run for its money, at least.

Pidge, he knows, is determined otherwise.

The way to the hotel that Galra Production has booked them at doesn’t take them past the Kogane Gym, but Shiro still feels somehow like he’s avoiding the place. Keith still hasn’t returned any of his calls or messages, and Shiro’s already stopped trying. He’s fairly sure he’s fucked things up for good between them, and if he were Keith, he wouldn’t want anything to do with himself either.

(It still hurts, though. It still makes for one more thing to regret about Keith.)

Shiro gets them checked in while Pidge does a check-up on Atlas, doing a little systems maintenance and adjusting some of its circuitry. He gets back to the pickup to find her going through some simple vocal commands, running the Atlas through practice motions of raising its arms, settling into stance. It makes him smile.

“Come on,” he says, when there’s a lull in their movements. “We should get something to eat.”

Pidge looks over at him with a shuttered expression for a moment, before she walks Atlas back into the trailer and powers it down. She says nothing as Shiro locks up and leads her off.

 

The morning of the fight finds Shiro awake again, watching the sunrise. Garrison City is subdued in the dawn, the sounds of the awakening city trickling in – the traffic, the chatter, the morning news from the room above him. It feels the same, but Shiro knows it isn’t, in the same way he feels like he’s been stuck where he is but really he’s changed. Him and Keith both.

It isn’t comforting, looking out onto the city streets, and Shiro still feels uprooted.

For the tenth time since he’s woken up, he checks his phone. There’s still nothing, not from the one person who matters, so Shiro exhales long and slow. Then he heads inside to get ready.

 

The MFE Arena is packed. Even outside, reporters and fans swarm the pickup as Shiro brings it in to park. ZERO Championship has thankfully assigned security detail, but it’s still a struggle to get Atlas into the building. Cameras flash at them from all sides, while reporters shout questions and fans shove things at them in the hopes of an autograph.

Shiro shuts away the painful familiarity, and pulls Pidge tighter against him, shielding her as they haul their bot into the doors.

The atmosphere inside is tense with anticipation. People stare at them in the corridors, whispers follow as they walk by. A ZERO Championship rep meets them inside and her smile is terrifying as she leads them to the waiting area. Shiro fumbles his way through the pre-fight interview; Pidge, thankfully, is a little more composed and defiant. She maintains her challenge against Sincline, asserting they have a chance to win.

It hits Shiro then, as he watches the interviewer break into a patronizing smile: no one else thinks they can do it.

Funnily enough, it’s this, more than anything, that makes him stand up straighter and set his jaw in determination. They’ve earned the right to be here – _Pidge_ has earned the right to this fight, to be taken seriously as a contender and challenger. She’s good enough, her and Atlas.

The interviewer turns to him and asks, “and how does her guardian fancy their chances against the legendary Sincline?”

Shiro squares his shoulders and looks at the camera.

“Team Sincline better watch out,” he says, and smiles. “They won’t know what’s coming for them.”

 

The din of the crowd is audible even from backstage. Shiro can hear as the last undercard fight finishes, the klaxon signalling the end of the round. He turns to Pidge, who’s still fiddling with Atlas, checking its systems over again. He exhales a small smile and puts a hand on her shoulder, waiting until she turns to him before he talks.

“Remember what I said last time?” She nods. Shiro taps her cheek lightly before he cups her face and looks her in the eye. “This is your chance, now. You’re incredible, Pidge, you are – just getting here at all is amazing. You earned this.” He drops his hand back to her shoulder and his smile widens. “So you get out there, and you show them that.”

The klaxon sounds. The ZERO Championship rep beckons them forward. Pidge takes a shaky breath, and Shiro nudges her forward.

“Go,” he says, and his voice is full of pride. “Be great.”

 

The MFE Arena is packed to the rafters. Banners hang from the balconies, displaying Sincline in its full glory and – Shiro has to chuckle – Atlas, as fierce as he’s ever seen it. Shutters click away as they lead their bot to the ring. Pidge walks with her head held high.

On the other side, standing behind a sophisticated control system, is the opposition.

The translucent screens interfere with the view, but Shiro still recognizes Acxa, blue hair bright under the arena lights. And standing beside her, long white hair stark against his dark skin, is Sincline’s designer himself. Lotor looks over at them haughtily, chin raised as he assesses the no-name bot and handler who’d dared challenge his prized fighter bot.

Shiro can’t wait for Pidge and Atlas to wipe that condescending expression off his face.

They check in with another rep, and Pidge does another systems check just in case. The announcer enters the ring with much fanfare, strobe lights flickering around the arena as he raises his hand and gestures for silence.

“ZERO Championship fans,” he booms dramatically, into the hush. “Tonight is an unprecedented, absolutely thrilling event in bot fighting history. Here, a champion will take on a bot from out of nowhere – a rookie, with only one ZERO Championship fight to their name. It’s the king against the peasant, the number one bot in the world against the nobody, the David versus Goliath. It’s the fight of the decade, folks, and we’re all here to watch it go down!”

The clamor of the crowd picks back up, echoing around the arena. Shiro puts his hand back on Pidge’s shoulder and squeezes reassuringly.

“Representing ZERO Championship,” the announcer calls, and he’s almost drowned out by the din. “The reigning World Bot Fighter titleholder, the greatest bot fighter of all time. Created by renowned genius designer Lotor, it is the undefeated, the legendary, the king of the ring – _Sincline!”_

Shiro watches as the champion bot steps out onto the catwalk from backstage to the deafening roar of the crowd and the music. The sleek, purple-and-grey bot looks powerful even just walking. It pauses a few feet away from the barriers, hunching down. Pidge and Shiro watch in awe as Sincline launches itself into the air, landing right in the center of the ring.

“Well, fuck,” Pidge says, eyes wide, and Shiro actually barks out a startled laugh.

“Language,” he chides, tapping her lightly on the back of the head, and she grins back at him.

Then the announcer turns their way, and Shiro takes a breath.

“Here we go,” he says, and Pidge nods. She pulls on the vocal-response control unit onto her head and adjusts the mic.

“In the other corner,” the announcer calls, smirking, “the underdog, the dark horse, the upstart bot that’s taken the scene by storm! Built by its handler almost from scratch, they defeated ZERO Championship’s own Myzax to get this fight. Here to take on the champion, this is your challenger – give it up for _Atlas!”_

“Showboat!” Pidge shouts into the mic, and Atlas responds with a quick one-two punch before thrusting both arms out in front and then raising them into the air. She grins at Shiro; across the ring, Lotor looks considerably less impressed.

The bots take their positions on opposite corners. The announcer steps down from the ring, while the referee enters. Shiro’s grip tightens on Pidge’s shoulder; he feels her straighten up in response.

Then the klaxon sounds, and the fight is on.

 

The first hit is from Sincline.

The champion bot decks Atlas right in the face with a mean left-handed punch, flooring Pidge’s bot immediately. Shiro winces, while Pidge leans forward.

“Up!” she screams, and Atlas gets back up.

Again, Sincline immediately hits it, getting in a three-punch combo, and again Atlas crumples to the ground. Pidge shouts the command, and again her bot gets back up. Across the ring, behind the screens, Sincline’s team of handlers – three women nicknamed the Generals – tap at their consoles, hands a flurry as they input the next series of commands.

Atlas barely has time to brace itself before Sincline sets on it, pummeling it until it’s backed up into a corner. Pidge tries to get it to spin away, but there’s too little room to maneuver. Sincline lays in a barrage of right-hand hits straight to the head.

“Hands up!” Pidge yells desperately, but there’s too many hits to cover, and Atlas gets slammed against the post with a painful crunch. It rebounds off the rope and to the floor, and the referee starts up the count for a third time.

“ _No,_ ” Pidge screams in frustration, slamming her hands to the tarp. “Get up, Atlas – get _up!”_

Against all odds, Atlas gets up.

The onslaught starts back up, Sincline ducking low and jabbing at Atlas’ torso. Pidge has her hands balled into fists as she calls Atlas into another guard stance. Shiro watches the bot cross its arms, pushed back by the force of the hits, and grits his teeth.

He leans down and shouts, “get a hit in!”

Pidge turns to him in confusion. “What?”

“You can’t keep on the defensive, Sincline’ll crush you.” Shiro nods towards the ring. “Get a hit in, get it off-guard. They’re underestimating you, they won’t think to guard because they don’t think you’ll even try.”

Pidge stares at him for a second longer before turning back to the ring. “Uppercut!” she yells, and in the briefest pause between Sincline’s hits, Atlas pulls an arm back and punches up.

The hit lands with the satisfying crunch of metal on metal, and Sincline reels back, clearly wrong-footed. Shiro watches in dark satisfaction as Lotor half-rises from his seat, disbelief clear all over his features. Very few bots have managed to land a clean hit on Sincline at all; he’s sure they’d never expected one like Atlas to get anything in.

“Press advantage!” he tells Pidge, and she happily complies.

Atlas surges forward, the feints back, luring Sincline in so it can land a two-hit combo and an elbow to the gut. Sincline staggers back, giving Atlas the space to land a right cross followed by a left hook. The crowd goes wild around them; Shiro can hear the stray chants of _Atlas_ in the chaos. But Sincline has recovered enough to land a series of two-fisted hits, backing Atlas against the ropes.

Then suddenly the double klaxon sounds, signalling the break

Against the odds, Pidge and Atlas have survived round one.

Shiro stands there for a few moments before shaking his head and nudging Pidge. “Call it to the corner,” he says, and she orders Atlas over. They check it over quickly; there’s smoke leaking out of Atlas’ shoulder joint, and Pidge has to re-wire some of its circuitry where the bot’s been damaged.

A quick systems check, and the ref begins signalling for the handlers to back away. Pidge hops out of the ring, expression grim.

“Well,” Shiro says, climbing down beside her, “time for round two.”

 

Round two turns into three, and then four, and stunningly, Atlas is holding on. Sincline tosses its opponent across the ring only for Atlas to get back up; Atlas lands a trifecta combo only for Sincline to counter with a left hook. Lotor has long abandoned any posturing and stands behind his generals, calling orders and commands. Pidge has her teeth bared as she shouts her own combinations, throwing everything they’ve got in their arsenal.

It’s in round five when they get into trouble.

Sincline catches Atlas in a headlock and snaps its arm back, forcing Atlas to spin across the ring and slam into the post. When Pidge yells for the bot to get back up and Atlas is a little too slow to respond, Shiro realizes something is wrong. Pidge keeps calling for Atlas to move, but the bot doesn’t respond, and Sincline immediately bombards it with a series of midsection hits.

“What’s wrong?” Pidge shouts him, distressed.

“I think the vocal-response is shot,” Shiro replies, staring at the bot where it’s trapped in the corner. “It can’t hear you.”

They’re saved by the bell; the klaxon sounds just as Sincline pulls a fist back to land a piston blow. As soon as the other bot backs off, Pidge and Shiro scramble into the ring to check theirs over.

Pidge pulls open the head panel and Shiro’s right – the vocal-response circuitry is fried. He grimaces; without that, they can’t command Atlas’ movements, which means the bot is essentially dead in the water. He’s debating whether they can fix this somehow when Pidge pushes him aside and, to his complete disbelief, shuts down the vocal-response unit completely.

“What are you doing?” he hisses over the noise of the crowd.

“It’s the only option we’ve got.” She tinkers with something, then flips a switch. Atlas sits back up in its stool. Shiro watches, perplexed, as Pidge digs around her tools bag, muttering to herself. When she straightens, he realizes what she’s going for.

“No,” he says, even as she holds out the electronic braces towards him.

“Shiro, you _have to,_ ” she pleads, pushing them at him.

“I can’t.” He can’t. Teaching the bot to spar in a small, empty ring had been one thing. What she’s asking him to do—

“ _Look_ at them.” Pidge points to a spot behind Shiro, who turns to find Lotor and Acxa in a heated discussion over by Sincline’s control system. Lotor’s face is contorted in fury, and he snaps something inaudible before turning to the screens and shoving one of his generals out of the way so he can check something himself.

Shiro turns back to Pidge, who looks at him stubbornly. “They’re _scared,_ Shiro. They know Atlas has a shot, they know what it can do—”

“But _I_ can’t do it.” Shiro grits his teeth and scrubs a hand over his face.

“Yes, you can.” Pidge pushes the braces into his limp hands. “You can do it, Shiro. You can do something great.”

And that’s – that’s not fair. Shiro looks at Pidge, her determined expression, face flushed from exertion. He looks at the bot behind her, the one she’d painstakingly repaired and redesigned and built with her own two hands. The bot she’d asked him to teach, standing across him in an old, familiar gym that had always been _home_. Going through motions he never thought he’d get to do again.

( _Get in the ring, Shiro._ )

Shiro closes his eyes, and takes a steadying breath. His hands close over the braces.

“Please,” Pidge says, and he exhales a sigh.

“If I strain a muscle, it’s your fault,” he mutters, and then shrugs off his jacket. The braces are cold to his skin as he clips them on. Pidge waits until they’re back out of the ring before she activates them, and when Shiro moves, Atlas responds.

He takes another steadying breath, licks his lips. Tries not to think about Keith, about whether he’s watching this right now.

Then the klaxon sounds, and the fight restarts.

 

It feels the same, and yet it’s so, so different.

Shiro circles the ring, following Atlas as it moves around. He keeps his eyes fixed on the two bots in the middle. Fighting Keith hadn’t amounted to much, but this – if Shiro were to close his eyes, he’d be able to picture another faceless opponent, a challenger for his latest championship title, a contender he had to take down. But he can’t close his eyes; he keeps them on the bots, on Sincline, watching for its movements, anticipating its attacks and quickly ducking or guarding. He’s had an eye on those control screens of Sincline’s for a while now, and he’s picked up on why Lotor looks absolutely livid.

Sincline’s running out of power, and Shiro’s going to take full advantage of that.

The champion bot staggers back after laying in another furious onslaught, a little unsteady on its feet. Shiro grins, and he pulls a fist back twice, taunting.

 _Come get me,_ he’s telling the Sincline team, and Lotor snarls in response.

Sincline surges forward again, getting in another barrage of punches. Shiro raises his hands again in a defensive stance, letting Atlas’ more sturdily-built parts take the brunt of the attacks. He knows Pidge built the bot for endurance, meaning it can take a beating, and Sincline can’t target the more vital systems so long as Atlas stays in a defensive crouch. So he guards, and he waits.

Beside him, Pidge frowns at him in distress and confusion.

“Why aren’t you attacking?” she yells, but Shiro just shakes his head.

“Not yet,” he tells her, and turns his focus back on their bot.

The crowd is shouting again, chants of _Atlas_ resounding around the arena. In the ring, Sincline continues to slow down, attacks becoming slightly less frequent, slightly less powerful. Shiro watches and waits, and he remembers how this feels, too – knowing when the perfect moment would be to strike.

Sincline retracts its arm, and its elbow joint jams for just a moment.

Shiro bares his teeth, and strikes.

The uppercut catches Sincline right on the jaw, sending it reeling back. Shiro follows up immediately with a series of left and right hooks, knocking the champion bot back and back until it’s pinned to the post. Across the ring, Lotor yells in frustration and pushes his team aside, taking the seat behind the screens himself and seizing the controls. Satisfaction floods through Shiro as he spins out of Sincline’s reach, ducking under its arms. He jumps, landing a right-handed blow right in its face.

The announcer starts shouting. Pidge shrieks beside him, clutching at his shirt and bouncing up and down. Lotor watches in disbelief as Sincline staggers to the side and improbably, unbelievably, stunningly—

—drops to the floor.

The referee stares for a moment before he raises his hand and starts the count.

 _Ten!_ The crowd picks up the count immediately, roaring the numbers around them. _Nine!_ Shiro stumbles back a little before regaining his footing. _Eight!_ His chest heaves as he tries to catch his breath. _Seven!_ There’s a stitch in his side, an ache in his right shoulder. _Six!_ His hands flex into fists, open-close, open-close. _Five!_ Beside him, Pidge has her hands clasped over her mouth. _Four!_ He thinks she might be shaking. _Three!_ He thinks _he_ might be shaking. _Two!_ He can’t breathe.

_One._

The klaxon sounds.

The crowd erupts around them.

Lotor screams, slamming a hand onto a screen with a force hard enough to crack the glass.

The referee points to Sincline, then slashes his arms through the air, signalling the knockout.

Shiro stands by the ring and watches as the ref gestures to Atlas.

 

They’ve won.

 

The aftermath is a blur of noise and light. Shiro looks on in disbelief as confetti rains down on the ring and the crowd continues to chant Atlas’ name. His own throat feels scraped raw. Pidge shakes him, still screaming, breaking him out of his daze. With a big, open-mouthed grin, Shiro raises his arms.

Atlas does the same in the ring, and victory reverberates sweet in Shiro’s bones.

He doesn’t remember the last time he’d felt like this.

Lotor and Acxa have departed the ring, leaving their team to take Sincline out. Shiro has no doubt they’ll repair the bot in time for its next fight. And maybe Sincline will win that; maybe it’ll simply restart its streak and go on to defeat the next contender. But the champion is no longer undefeated, and there may not have been a title on the line tonight, but they’ve still got the win.

Shiro powers off the braces and holds out his arms. Pidge jumps right into them, nearly knocking him over. He catches her, and they’re both laughing, and there’s confetti in their hair but Shiro doesn’t give a shit.

They’ve won.

 

They drive back to the hotel to park the trailer and the bot, but they’re both still too keyed up to sleep, so Shiro takes them back out to celebrate. They end up at a 24/7 diner where they get recognized, meaning they get a slew of congratulations and people asking for selfies and autographs. Pidge happily obliges, beaming at cameras. Shiro exhales a fond smile and waves off those who ask him for photos, too.

(He wonders, in dry humor, if any of them actually recognize him from a time before, when he was a different kind of fighter. If anyone remembers him as _Shiro the Hero,_ or if they know him now as someone else entirely. He wonders if that version of him still exists, somewhere inside him, and if he even wants to go back to being that person anymore.

Somehow, he doesn’t mind now, this person he’s become.)

Eventually they get to finish their food, and Shiro herds Pidge out of the diner and away from some stragglers asking to talk to her. She looks at him for a moment, eyes slightly squinted, then promptly declares she wants dessert. Shiro has no time to protest before she grabs him by the hand and drags him through the streets, and he’s so distracted by his confusion that he doesn’t realize where they’re going until they’ve rounded a corner and a familiar facade stands halfway down the block.

The Kogane Gym is still lit; presumably they’d been airing the bot fight on the television at the drinks bar. Shiro balks immediately, trying to twist out of Pidge’s grip, but she’s remarkably stubborn and strong when she means to be. She pulls him right up to the entrance and shoves him inside, and any hope that Shiro might have had of avoiding Keith is ruined when the man looks up from the bar and catches sight of them both.

“Shiro,” Keith says, startled, and there’s that way his voice wraps around the name again. But his expression quickly turns guarded, shuttered, and guilt wells up hot inside Shiro’s ribs. He deserves that, he knows.

“Hey, Keith,” he says, and offers a tentative smile.

They’ve caught Keith in the middle of closing down; he’s got a wipe on the bartop, and wet glasses are stacked on the counter behind it. Still, Pidge runs up to him, throwing her arms around his midsection and burying her face in his shirt.

“Hey, champ,” Keith says softly, winding his own arms around her. He squeezes her tight, leaning down to press a quick kiss to her hair. “You were amazing.”

Pidge pulls back, and Shiro can’t see the expression on her face, but it’s enough to make some surprise cross Keith’s own before he grins again and presses another kiss to her forehead. Then abruptly, she half-turns and pins Shiro with a pointed look.

“I’m going upstairs,” she promptly announces, and then turns on her heel. Shiro and Keith both gape after her as she disappears up the stairs and into the apartment, leaving them alone in the gym.

An awkward silence pans out as Shiro internally pouts and tries not to be so resentful, and Keith stands at the bar, clearly at a loss. He snaps out of it first, turning back to continue wiping down the bartop. Shiro watches him work, the familiar movements. Remembers all the times they’d stood here; remembers the last things they’d said to each other, before Keith had packed his bags and left the hotel in Daizal.

Shiro runs a hand through his hair and sighs.

“I’m not being fair, am I,” he says ruefully.

At the bar, Keith pauses in the middle of wiping. He looks at the granite top for a moment, then sighs as well.

“No,” he replies. The cloth gets crumpled between his fingers.

Shiro nods, then takes a breath before making his way over to the bar. After a slight pause, Keith drops the cloth and turns, hoisting himself onto the bartop.

When he glances up at Shiro, he expression is again shuttered, and tired.

Shiro bites his lip. He never wants to put that look back on Keith’s face, ever again.

“I didn’t think you’d watch,” he admits softly, because really, he didn’t. He wouldn’t have blamed Keith if the man had decided never to have anything to do with Shiro again.

For a long moment, Keith keeps looking at his hands in his lap, silent. Part of Shiro wants to leave, wants to get out of the building or get into his truck and drive away again. But he knows better, now; wants to _do_ better, so he stands and he waits because whatever Keith has to say, Shiro will hear. He’ll be here.

Eventually, Keith huffs out a laugh and rubs a hand over his neck.

“I almost didn’t,” he admits. “I thought about leaving Hunk to handle the bar tonight, and I thought about showing up at the MFE Arena to slap you before letting you out there for the fight.” Shiro lets out a startled snort of laughter before he can contain himself, and while he tries to cover it up quickly, the look Keith gives him is mostly dry amusement. Keith rubs his palms over his thighs and sighs again. “In the end, I stayed here, and I watched.”

“And?” The word feels desperate, almost pulled out of Shiro.

“And you were breathtaking.” Keith glances up at him with that soft, sweet smile again. His eyes are red-rimmed and damp. “Takashi, you’re not broken, you’re not.”

And that – Shiro just stands for a moment, looking at Keith. At this man who’d given Shiro so much, probably more than he’d had any right to ask for. Shiro thinks of how he’d once wanted nothing more than to make Keith happy, before everything had gone to pieces, before he’d gone and ruined the good thing they’d had going. How much he’d wanted to be _someone_ to Keith, be there for him.

It’s a lot to make up for, maybe too much, but Shiro also knows that if Keith will let him, then he’s willing to try and set things right.

“I’ve been thinking,” he starts, slowly, nervously. “About Pidge, and about her future. I haven’t gotten in touch with Iverson yet, but—” He breaks off, swallowing around the dryness in his throat. He can’t look straight at Keith, he can’t, as he says, “I think w– she might be pretty happy here.”

He falters, then, too scared to ask for what would come next. But he does look up at Keith, and for a moment he’s sure he’ll be met with that same shuttered expression, sure that Keith’s closed off. But Keith’s eyes are a little sad, even as a corner of his mouth quirks up.

“I can’t say I disagree,” he says, with a shrug.

Shiro just looks at him helplessly. Keith sighs, rolls his eyes, and gestures Shiro over. He complies; his steps feel wooden, but he puts one foot in front of the other until he’s standing in front of Keith, between his legs, hands hovering uncertainly over his thighs. Work-worn hands come up to card through Shiro’s hair, brushing gently over the undercut.

(However much Shiro looks like his old self, he’s not that person anymore. Neither of them are who they used to be. Shiro understands that now, and that it’s fine.)

Keith has a small, wistful smile as he says, for both of them, “there’s room for you here, too, you know.”

He drops his hands to his lap and looks up at Shiro, who shudders on an exhale and shuts his eyes. “I can’t—” He breaks off, tries again. “I can’t say I’ll be all that great – I’m shit in the kitchen and I still have nightmares, and frankly, you terrify me, and I still don’t know if I even deserve you—”

Keith leans in, then, shushes him with a soft kiss, one hand coming up to cup Shiro’s jaw, the other coming to rest on his prosthetic arm. Keith’s lips are soft on his, are parted in a smile as he pulls away.

“Let me decide that for myself,” he says, and Shiro falls back into him with a shattered breath.

“Okay,” he murmurs, pressing their foreheads together. “Okay.”

It’s not much, but it’s somewhere to start.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!! I hope you like the fic ^__^ Come say hi on social media – I'm on Twitter as [@redluxite](https://twitter.com/redluxite)! I post a lot of WIPs/updates on ongoing and future projects, and you can check there for ways to support my writing.


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